“If you can’t afford the tuition, Megan, put her in public school.”

I stood at my kitchen counter with my daughter’s tuition notice open beside me and stared at the phone.

“Jason, you’re five months behind on child support.”

There was a pause.

Not an embarrassed pause. Not even an apologetic one.

He sounded irritated.

“I know what I owe.”

“Then you know why I’m calling.”

The balance was $2,200. It had to be paid by Friday if Lily was going to keep her place at the school she had attended since first grade.

I had already emptied most of my savings. Two weeks earlier, I had sold the small gold bracelet my grandmother left me. I had also picked up weekend accounting work for a medical supply company, which meant spending Saturday nights at my dining table with spreadsheets open while Lily built her science fair project beside me.

Jason knew all of that.

“Megan, I have expenses too.”

I looked at the overdue support spreadsheet on my laptop.

“Lily is an expense too.”

He gave a short laugh.

“Exactly. She’s getting expensive.”

I didn’t answer.

Through the doorway, I could see Lily sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, carefully attaching a tiny motor to the model water-filtration system she wanted to enter in the school science competition.

Jason continued.

“She’s ten. She doesn’t need some fancy private school. Put her somewhere you can afford.”

“She’s been there for four years.”

“Then she had four good years.”

That was when I ended the call.

I set my phone facedown on the counter because I didn’t want Lily walking in and seeing my expression.

Three minutes later, the phone buzzed.

Instagram.

I almost ignored it.

Then I saw the name.

Ashley Miller.

Jason’s executive assistant.

And, for the previous eight months, his girlfriend.

The photo showed Ashley sitting at a restaurant table with a brand-new black Chanel bag beside a glass of champagne.

The caption was short.

When someone finally knows who deserves to be his priority.

I stared at the bag.

Then at the caption.

Then at the price tag visible inside the open shopping box.

$9,180.

Jason owed thousands in child support, but apparently there was money for Chanel.

I was about to close the app when something else caught my eye.

A receipt was sticking out from beneath the box.

Only a corner was visible.

Merchant name.

Date.

Total.

And four digits.

7621

My thumb stopped over the screen.

I knew those numbers.

The Four Digits I Wasn’t Supposed to Recognize

Before Lily was born, I had worked in compliance for the financial services group that owned Jason’s company.

Most people imagine compliance work as sitting in meetings and reading policies. A lot of it is actually noticing things that don’t belong.

A strange vendor.

A reimbursement that doesn’t match a receipt.

A card number appearing where it shouldn’t.

7621 belonged to a restricted corporate account.

At least, it had when I worked there.

The account was used for funds connected to client transactions. Employees could not simply charge personal purchases to it and reimburse the money later.

I enlarged Ashley’s photo.

The receipt became blurry, but the digits were still readable.

I took screenshots of the post, the caption, the receipt and the timestamp.

Then I searched my contacts for a number I had not called in almost six years.

David Wilson had been director of compliance when I worked there.

I sent him one message.

David, sorry to contact you out of nowhere. Is 7621 still associated with a restricted account?

He replied nine minutes later.

Why are you asking?

I sent the screenshot.

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Finally, he wrote:

Where did you get this?

Public Instagram post.

Another pause.

Then my phone rang.

“Megan, don’t delete anything.”

David’s voice had changed. He sounded exactly the way he used to sound when someone brought him a document that needed to be preserved.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Don’t contact Jason about this.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“David, is that the account I think it is?”

He didn’t answer directly.

“Send me the original screenshots. Don’t crop them. I need the timestamps visible.”

“Okay.”

Then he said something that made me look toward the living room to make sure Lily couldn’t hear.

“And Megan? Don’t post anything about this. Don’t comment on Ashley’s picture. Just leave it alone.”

The call ended.

I sat there for another minute with the tuition notice beside my hand.

$2,200.

That was all I had asked Jason to help cover.

On my phone was a $9,180 handbag.

I forwarded the screenshots to David.

Then I went into the living room and helped Lily finish her science project.

I didn’t hear from David again that weekend.

Jason didn’t call either.

On Sunday night, Lily asked whether she was still going to be able to enter the science competition.

“Of course.”

She looked at me.

“But what about school?”

I tightened one of the little plastic tubes on her project.

“I’m handling it.”

I wasn’t sure how yet.

But for the first time all week, I wasn’t looking at the tuition notice.

I was thinking about four numbers on a receipt.

Twenty-Seven Transactions

At 8:12 Monday morning, David called.

“Can you come downtown?”

“Why?”

“I’d rather explain that here.”

I dropped Lily at school and drove to the company’s Dallas headquarters.

The building hadn’t changed much since I left. Same gray lobby. Same glass elevators. Same security desk where employees always forgot their badges on Monday mornings.

David met me upstairs.

He looked older, but otherwise exactly the same.

He didn’t bother with small talk.

“You were right about the card.”

He led me into a small conference room and closed the door.

A folder sat on the table.

“The Chanel purchase was made through a restricted corporate account.”

I stared at him.