I laughed.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because things changed.”
“What changed?”
“Mara wants me there full-time.”
I almost smiled.
“She thought you weren’t?”
He looked away.
“Does she know you still live here sometimes?”
“She thinks I use it for work.”
I stared.
The absurdity was almost artistic.
Two women.
Two homes.
Different stories.
Same man.
“How often are you at Evanston?”
“Most nights.”
There it was.
The condo in West Loop wasn’t even his main home anymore.
It was storage.
A stage set.
Something preserved for my eventual return.
I asked, “Who pays utilities here?”
“I do.”
“With what money?”
He said nothing.
I knew.
Mine.
The next morning, Corbin’s attorney contacted Audrey.
By afternoon, the tone changed.
Defensive.
Technical.
They argued that the refinance had been authorized.
That the Evanston condo was an investment.
That household spending during marriage was not automatically misuse.
Audrey was calm.
“Let them argue.”
“Does that mean they’re right?”
“Some points may be legally contestable.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She looked at me.
“No.”
“Morally, this is ugly.”
“Legally, we need documents.”
Again.
Paper.
Always paper.
Then she smiled slightly.
“Fortunately, he left a lot of it.”
The deeper we looked, the worse it became.
Not because Corbin had spent every dollar.
He hadn’t.
He had invested some.
But many assets were titled in structures I didn’t know existed.
Lakefront Residential.
Vale Property Management.
An investment account under his sole name.
