The paper was a bank statement.

Not his.

Not the joint account they had closed after the divorce.

A new account — opened eight months ago — in his daughter's name.

Except the address on the statement was Diane's mother's house.

And the transaction history showed every child support payment he had ever made, transferred in within forty-eight hours of arrival, then withdrawn in cash two days later.

Every single one.

He stood on the pavement outside the shoe store with Lily's hand in his and read the statement twice.

Then he folded it carefully and put it in his jacket pocket.

"Daddy?

Are we still getting shoes?"

"Yes, sweetheart." He pushed the door open.

"We're still getting shoes."

He let her pick whatever she wanted.

She chose a pair with small silver stars on the side and held them against her chest the whole walk back to his car.

He buckled her in, closed the door, and stood outside for a moment with his hand flat on the roof.

Then he called his solicitor.

"Marcus.

I need to see you Monday."

"What's happened?"

"I've got a bank statement showing two years of child support payments being redirected into a private account.

Every transfer.

Cashed out within forty-eight hours."

A pause.

"Where did you get it?"

"My seven-year-old found it in her mother's drawer."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

"Don't confront Diane before we speak," Marcus said.

"Don't say a word to her.

Can you do that?"

He looked through the car window at Lily, who was holding one silver-starred shoe up to the light.

"I can do that."

"Monday morning.

Eight o'clock.

Bring the statement and every transfer receipt you have."

He ended the call and got in the car.

"Daddy, do you like them?" Lily held the shoe toward him.

"I love them," he said.

"They're perfect."

She smiled and pressed them back against her chest.

He drove.

He kept his face steady.

But his mind was already moving through two years of payments — the amounts, the dates, the messages Diane had sent asking for more.

The school trip that needed covering.

The winter coat.

The dentist visit.

The shoes.

Always something for Lily.

Always something that never reached her.

He pulled up outside Diane's house at the agreed drop-off time.

Diane was already at the door.

She had the new handbag over one shoulder.

She looked at Lily's feet and her expression shifted — just slightly, just for a second — before she arranged her face back into something neutral.

"New shoes?" she said.

"I bought them," he said.

Flat.

No explanation.

Diane's eyes moved to his face.

Something passed through them that wasn't quite guilt and wasn't quite fear.

Something in between.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know," he said.

He kissed Lily on the top of her head, told her he would see her Wednesday, and walked back to his car without another word.

He did not look back.

But as he reached the end of the street, his phone buzzed.

A message from Diane.

*We need to talk.

About the money.

Before you do anything stupid.*

He read it once.

Set the phone face-down on the passenger seat.

She already knew he had found something.