Following the sudden death of my husband, I couldn’t muster the courage to step into his garage. He had always firmly prohibited me from entering that space. Yet, when the time came to put it up for sale, I unlocked the door and was struck with shock at what lay inside…
It wasn’t just leverage. It was a loaded gun. Thomas kept proof, I whispered, of everything.
And in that moment, I understood. He hadn’t just left me a mess. He’d left me a weapon.
Now it was my choice who to aim it at. We didn’t go home. We went to the lawyer.
His name was Marcus Doyle, and he’d represented my father’s estate years ago. Straightforward, discreet, and allergic to drama. I told him everything.
Almost. Not about the affair. Not about Rachel.
Just the parts that mattered legally. The documents, the threats, the offshore accounts. He didn’t blink.
Do you want to press charges, he asked. No, I said. I want insurance.
He nodded. Then we’ll copy everything. Digitally.
Physically. Store backups in three locations. One here.
One with you. And one with someone not connected to you. I know just the person, Claire said, smiling grimly.
We spent hours scanning files. Thomas had kept meticulous records. Names, dates, wire logs, fake invoices.
It wasn’t just shady business. It was criminal enterprise. International.
And with Thomas gone, they thought the evidence had vanished. They were wrong. By the end of the day, Marcus had drafted a simple letter.
I added one line at the bottom in my own handwriting. Try me. VC.
We sent it to Gordon Blake’s office via courier. He called within 15 minutes. You think you’re clever, he hissed into the phone.
You’re in over your head. No, I replied calmly. You are.
Because the next call I make is to the IRS. And after that, Interpol. There was a pause.
Then laughter. All right, he said. What do you want? Nothing, I said.
I just want you to stop. No calls. No threats.
No late night warnings. You touch me or anyone I know, and the folder goes public. Every file.
Every signature. You don’t want that kind of trouble. I already have that kind of trouble, I said.
The difference is I’m not afraid of it anymore. He hung up. Two hours later, Victor Crane called.
His tone was different. Smooth. Polished.
Like a man used to charming his way through locked doors. Vivian, he said, like we were old friends. I’ve heard about your discoveries.
I think we’re starting off on the wrong foot. There is no foot, I said. Just your signature on a dozen illegal transfers.
He laughed softly. All hypothetical, of course. I let the silence stretch.
Then I said, I know you think you can handle this. But here’s the thing, Mr. Crane. I have no reputation to lose.
No company to protect. I have nothing left of the life I knew. And that makes me very, very dangerous.
That shut him up. I ended the call. Logan and I sat on Claire’s porch that night.
The flash drive in his pocket. A copy of the folder buried in the planter box behind us. Paranoid? Maybe.
But when you’ve been lied to by the person you trusted most, paranoia starts to feel like survival. I didn’t know he was capable of all this, Logan said quietly. My mom, she always said he was complicated.
But I thought she meant sad. Not corrupt. He was both, I said.
And maybe more. I stared up at the stars, cold and steady above us. We’re not done yet, I said.
There’s one more thing we haven’t opened. Logan frowned. What? The flash drive.
The flash drive was small. Black. Unmarked.
Like it had nothing to say unless you asked the right way. We didn’t open it that night. Or the next morning.
It took me two days. Two days of preparing myself for whatever truth was still waiting. Two days of rehearsing my reactions, as if practicing would make betrayal feel any less sharp.
Logan sat beside me on the couch. Claire brought tea again. No one said a word as I plugged it in.
A single folder appeared. For Vivian Inside, one video file. Dated just ten days before Thomas’ death.
My fingers hovered, then clicked. The screen went black, then flickered to life. Thomas.
Not the one I’d seen in wedding photos, or seated across from me at dinner. This Thomas looked hollow. Eyes tired…