The small office smelled of lavender soap and the dry paper of old sketchbooks, a quiet contrast to the damp cold outside.
She opened the leather-bound ledger containing the monthly client invoices, her fingers tracing the columns of numbers.
A charge from the previous Friday caught her eye, printed in the neat, automated font of the bank statement.
It was a transaction for four thousand dollars, authorized at a luxury woodland resort in upstate New York.
She picked up a physical receipt from the local print shop that had been stapled to the ledger. It was for fifty custom invitations, ordered by Grant’s office and billed to her studio’s account.
She had not authorized any invitations, and the print shop was located only three blocks from their townhouse.
The delivery address on the invoice was not their Spruce Street home, but a rental property on City Avenue.
Caroline tapped the tip of her silver pen against the edge of the ledger, her thumb rubbing the smooth metal.
The studio’s company credit card was supposed to be reserved for fabric shipments and antique hardware imports.
