Over pancakes, with the boys three tables away drowning waffles in syrup, Desmond finally told me. His wife, Brielle, had spent eight months building a file. She had recorded him during arguments she provoked, saved texts he sent while sleep-deprived from working doubles, and photographed the medication he took for the anxiety that started after his layoff. She had filed for an emergency custody order claiming he was mentally unstable and a danger, and the court had granted temporary residence of the house and the children to her pending a hearing. The two hundred and twenty thousand I had invested into the small contracting business he and Brielle ran together had been quietly moved into an account in her name alone the same week. He had walked out with the boys during her visitation, panicked, believing that if he stayed he would lose them entirely, and had been living in the car for eleven days because he was too ashamed to call me.

I called my attorney from the diner parking lot. What Brielle had not accounted for was that the business investment was documented as a loan to the company, not a gift to her, with a signed note and a security interest, all filed the year I made it, because I do not hand money to anyone without paper.