Page 8 of Tarek

Philip kept looking at me. "I love you," he said.

"I love you, too. I'm sure they'll figure out the mistake. There's no way you did this."

He nodded, and then they led him away.

"Don't take my daddy!" Matt screamed, and a young officer grabbed him, kneeling down to shush him and try to make him feel better. "It's okay, big guy. Your daddy just has to go answer some questions about a mistake he made, okay? He'll come home soon."

I stood there with all three children crying around me, watching the man I loved disappear into a police car. One of the detectives approached. He told me where they were taking my husband, and that there was nothing I could do until he could be bonded out, maybe tomorrow, but most likely the day after that.

"Everything's still backlogged from the holidays," he said. "Go home, feed your kids. Call someone to come sit with you."

I couldn't process any of this.

"Someone call him an Uber,” the detective said. Then to a uniform, "Don't let him drive. He's in shock."

"I don't blame him," the officer replied, but led me and my crying children to one side, and gently took my phone from me and, after getting me to unlock it, called us an Uber to go home.

By the time I got the children home, I was barely holding myself together. I called Philip's parents.

His mother answered. "Darren?"

"They arrested Philip," I sobbed.

There was a long silence. "What?"

"They arrested him at the firm. They said fraud. Embezzlement. Tax evasion."

"No." The certainty in her voice was immediate. "No. That's impossible."

"I know."

"Philip wouldn't do that."

"I know."

His father came onto the phone. "What happened?"

I repeated what little I knew. They promised to get him a good criminal lawyer. Neither of them believed it. They couldn't, and neither could I. Philip was many things, but he wasn't a thief. He wasn't a criminal. He was my husband. He was the man who had held our children when they were babies. The man who worried about icy roads. The man who had tickled me in bed the night before because I'd called him a worrywart. He was the man who got us a dacshund puppy and took his turn walking her, throwing her a ball, and scrubbing the carpet while she was being housebroken. He couldn't be the person they were describing.

He just couldn't.

I had barely begun trying to get the children settled after giving them some cereal and Laura a bottle when someone knocked on the door. I froze. Another knock came. Harder this time. I walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

There were people standing outside.

"Federal agents! Open the door! We have a warrant to search the premises!"

Not police officers this time. Federal agents. One of the suited men held up a wallet. On one side was a badge. On the other was an ID. At the top, there was a Department of the Treasury seal, looking all very official indeed. Next to it, it read, "This is to certify that...then, there was the man's picture with his name beside it. Jonathan Boyles. Below that it continued, "Special Agent CRIMINAL Division, and a number of some kind and a signature. I felt sick. For several seconds, I couldn't move, and then I opened the door.

One of them held up the warrants, the other one put his ID away. "Mr. Brooks? We have a warrant to search the premises."

I stepped aside to let them in. They came inside.

"Please," I whispered. Try not to upset the children."

"Why don't you put some TV on for them," Special Agent Boyles said, looking mildly sympathetic.

I nodded as a third agent came to sit with us while the children watched Sesame Street despite now being a bit too old for it, and I rocked Laura in the rocker recliner, trying to not let my stress show as I watched the life Philip and I had built together begin to come apart.