Chapter 3

With no expression, I didn't reply to a single message.

I went into the mobile banking app and found that joint account with only two dollars and seventy-five cents left in it. I transferred five hundred dollars from my own savings account over to it. In the transfer memo field, I typed out one word at a time:

"For the next six months, five hundred will arrive on the first of each month. Mr. Foster, as an adult, please learn basic budget management."

Transfer complete. I took a screenshot. Kept it for myself.

I opened my contacts, found his profile picture, and hovered my thumb for a second.

Block this Caller.

The world went quiet.

Five hundred bucks—to a man accustomed to throwing money around like water in the Bay Area, it was not a lifeline thrown in the snow. It was a lit match dropped into a gas tank.

Less than ten minutes later, an unknown Kentucky number called. I answered.

On the other end was Brandon, barely holding back his rage, his voice nearly out of control.

"Valerie! What is this supposed to mean? Five hundred? Do you think I'm some damn homeless guy on the street?"

Before the words finished, another voice ripped the phone out of his hands.

His mother. Diane Foster.

Sharper than Brandon, more vicious, thick with a heavy Southern drawl.

"Valerie Moore you little— My son has given you so much! He makes $900,000 a year! Every cent of it spent on you!"

She grew more excited the more she ranted, her words picking up speed.

"Oh, you think you're something special now, do you? Just walk away, just like that? Listen here, sweetheart—my son's money is my son's money. It's got nothing to do with you. Not a single cent."

"The roof over your head, the food in your mouth, the clothes on your back—who do you think paid for all that? My son did!"

"Now you get your ass back here right this minute and take proper care of my son. Or so help me God, you will regret this."

I listened through it all.

These words—I had heard them in different tones, different pitches, on different occasions, over and over for three years.

Before, they would hurt. They would make me feel wronged. I would cry. I would argue back.

Now there was only numbness and disgust.

She ran out of breath and stopped screaming.

I spoke. My voice was very soft.

"Are you finished?"

"Then good luck to you and your precious son."

I hung up. Blocked the number.

Turned on Silence Unknown Callers.

I leaned back on the sofa and looked out at the London nightscape.

The images that used to stab into my heart slid by, frame by frame.

One year ago.

Dad was jogging on a trail in San Jose when he suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed. Emergency services got him to the hospital. The doctors said he needed bypass surgery immediately. The top out-of-network specialist was called in. After insurance, the out-of-pocket portion came to $120,000.

At the time, all my liquid funds were tied up in a short-term CD. I couldn't get them out.

I called Brandon, crying.

"Brandon, my dad needs surgery. A hundred twenty thousand in cash. Can we pull it out of your mom's account for now?"

Two seconds of silence.

"Babe, don't panic. Your family is my family."

"But the money's all locked in the trust account on my mom's side. If we pull it early, the tax hit isn't small. Can you figure out another way?"

I begged him.

"That's my dad's life. Forget about the damn taxes. He's lying in a hospital bed."

On the other end, he slowly ran the calculations.

"It's not just the taxes. There's a lock-up period. Can't touch it. How about you take out a personal loan? Just to bridge things over."

The day before that, I had heard him on the phone with his mother with my own ears.

"Mom, go ahead and book the European cruise. It's twelve grand a head, right? A hundred twenty thousand budget—book it directly."

A luxury cruise for his parents. A hundred twenty thousand, available at any moment.

A hundred twenty thousand to save my dad's life. Not a single cent could be spared.

I didn't beg him again.

I called my PhD advisor, Professor Mitchell. Without a second thought, he wired the money into my account within thirty minutes.

Dad's surgery was a success.

But some things—on that day, they died completely.

Brandon Foster, from that day forward, was no longer a husband in my eyes. He was just a name printed next to mine on a legal document. A business partner who could be liquidated at any time.

I started making preparations without making a sound.

I went to Wells Fargo and opened a new, completely separate account. I quietly switched the direct deposit for my salary in the company HR system.

Then, one document after another, I collected every piece of evidence from the duration of the marriage.

His tax returns and deposit records for his $900,000 salary. The bank statements showing the transfers to his mother. The mortgage, car loan, and property tax bills I had paid for entirely alone. Every single spending record from his supplementary card. Everything from monthly payments down to a pack of salt bought at the supermarket.

I scanned it all, photographed it all, encrypted it, and uploaded it to the cloud.

I gave that folder a name.

"Project Phoenix."