“And if something goes wrong?” Constance asked.
“Nothing will,” Lydia said. “Just take it all before he can freeze the accounts in the morning. We’ll split it. You take sixty. I take sixty-seven. That’s fair since I’m the one taking the risk of staying married to him a little longer.”
“How long is a little longer?”
Lydia laughed, quiet and cruel. “Three months. Maybe. Long enough that the divorce doesn’t look suspicious.”
I could picture her smile when she said it, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. I’d noticed that change weeks ago. The way she’d started bringing me coffee in bed on random Tuesdays, not anniversaries or birthdays, just Tuesdays. The way she’d asked casual questions about savings accounts, investments, whether my grandfather’s money was “all just sitting there.” I’d told myself I was imagining things. That marriage had seasons. That I was lucky she cared.
