My husband had me sentenced to ten years for a two-million-dollar fraud I never committed, and in the courthouse corridor he pulled my grandmother’s ring off my finger and told me to enjoy it. I didn’t argue. I handed a folded piece of paper to the guard.

He did not hug me. He did not smile.

When we were finally alone in the back of his car he said:

“Your husband thinks he stole two million dollars from a company.”

“He did.”

Anders Kaszuba shook his head slowly.

“No. Those funds were placed into Kellerman by a private vehicle of mine. He does not know whose money he took.”

I felt something go cold under my breastbone.

Then my father looked out the window and said, “There is a worse thing and I would rather you hear it from me tonight.”

“What.”

“While you were on trial, your townhouse on Ferrers Street was sold under a power of attorney bearing your signature.”

I thought of Cass. His room. The height marks on the door frame.

“Who bought it?”