And Richard Whitmore had heard that name before.
Caroline sat in her living room with the television muted.
On the screen was Simone's photograph.
The caption identified her as Deputy Inspector General for Civil Rights and Public Integrity.
Caroline stared.
"Richard?"
Her husband was standing near the window.
He didn't answer.
"You know her?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
Caroline noticed.
"Don't lie to me."
Richard turned.
"I know her office."
"That's not what I asked."
Richard walked toward the bar.
He poured himself a drink even though it was barely noon.
Caroline watched him.
"What is happening?"
"Nothing."
"Then why do you look terrified?"
"I'm not terrified."
"You are."
Richard didn't respond.
Caroline looked back at the television.
Simone Bennett.
Civil Rights.
Public Integrity.
Eastborough investigations.
Public contracts.
She remembered Richard complaining about government investigators several months earlier.
She remembered him saying they were asking too many questions.
She had never asked which questions.
She had trusted him.
Perhaps too much.
The next morning, at 6:12 a.m., someone knocked violently on their front door.
Caroline came downstairs in a robe.
Richard was already standing in the hallway.
Through the glass, she saw police vehicles.
Investigators.
Agents.
A man holding a document.
Then came the words:
"Search warrant."
Caroline turned toward her husband.
"What did you do?"
Richard said nothing.
The door opened.
The search began.
Investigators entered Whitmore Development headquarters at the same time.
Computers were seized.
Phones were collected.
Financial records were boxed.
Hard drives were removed.
At the Whitmore residence, investigators searched Richard's study.
They found a locked cabinet.
Inside were records belonging to the Eastborough Civic Foundation.
Caroline's signature appeared on several documents.
She stared at the pages.
"I don't remember these."
An investigator said nothing.
Caroline felt the room spin.
"What are you looking for?"
"Financial records."
"My husband handles the finances."
"You're the foundation treasurer."
"Technically."
The investigator looked at her.
"Mrs. Whitmore, there's no 'technically' in financial records."
That sentence stayed with her.
Later that afternoon, Marcus entered Simone's office.
"You need to see something."
"I've recused myself."
"I know."
He placed a printed email on her desk.
"You don't need to make any decision. I just want you to know your name appears here."
Simone read it.
The email had been written months earlier by Richard Whitmore.
It discussed the investigation.
It mentioned Simone's office.
And it contained a sentence that made her pause.
Richard had apparently been discussing ways to put political pressure on investigators if the inquiry expanded.
Simone looked up.
"They knew."
"Apparently."
"How?"
"We don't know yet."
Simone handed the document back.
"Find out."
Marcus nodded.
"That's what Amelia is doing."
"Good."
She leaned back.
"Keep me out of the chain."
"We will."
That evening, Caroline sat alone.
For the first time, she wondered whether her husband had been lying to her for years.
She remembered every document she had signed.
Every charity event.
Every foundation meeting.
Every time Richard told her:
"It's routine."
"Don't worry about it."
"I'll handle it."
She had believed him.
Now she wasn't sure what that belief had cost.
The financial investigators spent weeks reconstructing the money.
They found inflated invoices.
They found subcontractors charging far above market rates.
They found consulting companies with almost no real business activity.
They found payments that moved from one company to another and then disappeared.
Eventually, they found the missing number.
$680,000.
Nearly six hundred eighty thousand dollars from a municipal grant program could not be accounted for.
The money had passed through several entities.
One was connected to Whitmore Development.
Another was connected to a consulting company.
A third was linked to an organization that had received grants from the Eastborough Civic Foundation.
The investigation became public.
News organizations began covering it.
Caroline's name appeared in headlines.
Not because of the department store.
This time, it was because she was the treasurer of the foundation.
Reporters asked whether she knew where the money went.
She couldn't answer.
Richard could.
But he wasn't talking.
Caroline hired an attorney.
Amelia Chen interviewed her.
"Did you authorize this transfer?"
Amelia placed a document on the table.
Caroline looked down.
$185,000.
Her signature appeared at the bottom.
"I don't remember signing it."
"That's your signature?"
"Yes."
"Did you know where the money was going?"
"No."
"Who prepared the paperwork?"
"Richard."
"Did you review it?"
Caroline hesitated.
"Usually."
"Usually isn't an answer."
Caroline looked at her attorney.
Then back at Amelia.
"No. I didn't always review everything."
"Why?"
"Because I trusted my husband."
Amelia leaned back.
"Trust is not an accounting system."
Caroline looked down.
The sentence was painful.
Because it was true.
She had spent years believing that being a good person meant donating money, attending charity events, wearing appropriate clothes, and knowing the right people.
She had never considered whether she actually understood the organizations she represented.
The interview lasted two hours.
When Caroline walked into the hallway, she stopped.
Simone was approaching from the opposite direction.
They stared at each other.
Caroline remembered the department store.