Gabriela Torres.
She was in her fifties, wore rectangular glasses, and had the remarkable ability to make terrifying situations sound manageable.
She read Diego’s proposed divorce agreement.
Then she looked over the top of her glasses.
“He drafted this himself?”
“With Paula’s cousin, apparently. He’s studying law.”
“Studying?”
“Yes.”
She closed the folder.
“That explains several things.”
For the first time in weeks, I laughed.
Then Gabriela became serious.
“Do not sign anything Diego gives you.”
“I won’t.”
“Save every text. Screenshot his posts. Save the messages from his mother. Don’t argue online.”
I nodded.
“And we need financial records.”
That became important sooner than I expected.
Because when Gabriela requested disclosures, we discovered something else.
For six months, money had been disappearing from our joint account.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
Jewelry.
Weekend trips.
A deposit on an apartment.
Paula’s apartment.
My husband had been financing his affair with marital money while
