On the first anniversary of Victoria’s death, I bought twelve white roses.

I stood in the kitchen turning them in my hands one stem at a time, thinking how strange it was that a marriage could be reduced to flowers, dates, and the silence left behind.

Twelve years.

That was all I got with her.Twelve years of coffee mugs in the sink, whispered jokes in bed, tax-season takeout, school pickups, and the ordinary little moments that only look extraordinary once they are gone.

Then my phone rang.

Thomas Garrison, the contractor handling the renovation on Victoria’s old office, sounded so shaken I barely recognized him.

He told me to come down right away.Then he said something I still hear clearly even now: “Don’t come alone.

Bring the boys.

And bring a lawyer if you’ve got one.”

By the time I hung up, my pulse was thudding so hard I could feel it in my throat.I went upstairs, told Leo and Sam to get their shoes, and drove us across Portland in a silence that felt older than one year.

Victoria’s office had sat untouched since the night she died.

She and Marcus Vance had run Sterling & Vance Accounting together for years.

Small clients.If the church expansion fund collapsed, elderly donors would lose their savings.

If the youth sports league got audited mid-season, it might fold completely.

She had started repaying some missing funds from our savings while she built a record strong enough to survive a courtroom.

Then Marcus figured out she knew.

And he threatened our boys.

I still remember…