And that was new too. I usually knew. I was the one people called when something went wrong, when a client was upset, when a check didn’t go through, when a subcontractor didn’t show up. I was the one who knew where everything was, who to call, what to say.
I took a bite of toast, barely tasted it. “I think I need to talk to someone first,” I said.
Paula didn’t ask who. She already knew.
By noon, I was sitting across from Martin Keane in a small office just off High Street. He was exactly what you’d expect a man his age to be. Early sixties, gray hair, glasses that sat low on his nose, voice calm in a way that made you feel like nothing could really rattle him.
Paula had recommended him years ago. I had never thought I’d need him until now.
He listened while I talked, didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush me. Just let me lay it out. The barbecue, the ultimatum, the affair, the dress. That detail slipped out before I could stop it. He didn’t react to it, but I saw something shift in his eyes. Not judgment. Just understanding.
When I finished, he folded his hands on the desk. “All right,” he said. “Let’s take this one step at a time.”
I nodded.
He leaned back slightly. “First, have you done anything to his accounts? The business shared assets. Have you moved money, changed passwords, shut anything down?”
“No.”
“Good.” He gave a small nod. “That’s good.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “I don’t want to ruin him,” I said.
Martin’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t have to,” he said simply. He paused. “Sometimes the most effective thing a person can do is stop fixing what isn’t theirs to fix.”
That landed.
I looked down at my hands. “I’ve been doing that for a long time,” I said.
“I figured,” he replied.
There was no judgment in it, just fact.
He reached for a notepad. “Tell me about your role in the business,” he said.
And for a second, I almost laughed. “My role?” I said.
I thought about it, and then instead of listing everything, one memory came up.
“Christmas Eve 2015,” I said.
He looked up.
“Greg had a client threatening to walk. Big contract. Forty-five thousand dollars. Something was wrong with the invoices. Numbers didn’t match.”
I swallowed.
“He was at a party. Said he’d deal with it after the holiday.” I let out a small breath. “I stayed up until three in the morning fixing it, cross-checking everything, calling the supplier, rebuilding the invoice line by line.”
Martin didn’t say anything.
“Next morning,” I went on, “he woke up, glanced at it, and said…” I paused. “Thanks for helping out.”
I gave a small shrug. “Helping out.”
Martin wrote something down. Then he looked back at me. “And how often would you say that happened?” he asked.
I let out a short breath. “Different versions of it all the time.”
He nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. “Here’s the thing, Denise. From what you’re describing, you’ve been functioning as the operational backbone of that company.”
I didn’t respond, because I knew he was right.
He tapped his pen lightly on the desk. “You don’t need to sabotage anything. You don’t need to make a scene.”
I looked up at him. “Then what do I do?”
