PART 3: The Gathering Storm
I didn't go to a cheap motel. Instead, I walked three miles to the Historic Center, straight to the doorstep of Marcus Vance. Marcus was a tough, sharp-suited lawyer I had befriended years ago when I designed the interior of his law firm. He knew my character, and more importantly, he had never believed my sudden confession to corporate fraud.
When I showed up on his porch smelling of rubbing alcohol and prison soap, he didn't judge me. He brought me inside, poured me a cup of black coffee, and listened.
When I played the audio clip from the cloud camera, Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“This is an admission of guilt, Summer,” Marcus said, leaning over his mahogany desk. “But the audio alone might get tied up in court under wiretapping technicalities. We need to catch them red-handed with the physical money they mentioned hiding in the basement. If we find that, Austin goes down for the original embezzlement, and we can slap them all with real estate fraud for forging your signature on the house deed transfer.”
“How?” I asked, my voice cold and steady. “They changed the locks. Sheila practically threw me off the porch. I can’t exactly walk in and start tearing down the basement walls.”
Marcus smirked, tapping a silver pen against his desk. “We don’t have to sneak in. We just need an invitation.”
Over the next four days, I became a ghost. I slept on Marcus’s guest bed, eating real food and regaining my strength. Together, we built a fortress of evidence. We pulled the forged property records. We got the original police reports from my arrest. We traced the serial numbers of the missing seventy thousand dollars from the corporate firm.
Meanwhile, I monitored the living room camera. I watched Sheila prance around my house, decorating for what she called her “High Society Baby Shower.” She had invited half of Columbus—local politicians, Austin’s new corporate bosses, and all the judgmental neighbors who had whispered about me when I went away. She wanted to solidify her status as the perfect, wealthy suburban wife.
The party was set for Saturday afternoon.
On Saturday morning, Marcus handed me a sleek, tailored navy-blue pantsuit he had bought for me. I looked in the mirror. Gone was the frail, exhausted ex-con who had stood crying on the sidewalk. Staring back at me was a woman forged in fire.
“The police captain owes me a favor,” Marcus said, checking his watch. “He’s got two squad cars parked down the street from your house. They are waiting for my signal. Are you ready to take back your life, Summer?”
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I slipped a Bluetooth microphone into my pocket—synced directly to my phone—and gave him a tight nod.
“Let’s go crash a party.”
