Chapter 15
The next morning broke with brilliant sunshine,
a stark contrast to the gloom of the previous day,
and the bright rays streamed through my window,
warming the hardwood floor of my small bedroom.
I woke up feeling remarkably rested,
having slept deeply for the first time in months,
unburdened by the nightmares of courtrooms,
and the haunting specter of Rebecca's face.
I brewed a strong pot of dark roast coffee,
and I sat at my kitchen table with a notepad,
making a list of all the things I had neglected,
while my life was consumed by the legal battle.
I needed to call my landlord about the leaky sink,
I had to catch up on a massive pile of emails,
and I desperately needed to restock my empty fridge,
which currently held only mustard and stale bread.
But before I could start on any of those chores,
my cell phone buzzed loudly on the wooden table,
displaying an unknown number on the glowing screen,
which made my stomach clench with sudden anxiety.
I hesitated for a moment before answering,
fearing it might be a reporter or another lawyer,
but I swiped the green button and said hello,
trying to keep my voice as steady as possible.
A gruff, unfamiliar male voice greeted me,
identifying himself as Detective Thomas Vance,
from the financial crimes division downtown,
stating he had been reviewing the trial files.
He said he noticed an unusual discrepancy,
a series of strange, unaccounted bank transfers,
made in the weeks just before Rebecca's arrest,
that had somehow slipped past the first audit.
My heart began to race in my chest again,
and I asked him exactly what he was implying,
fearing that the nightmare was not actually over,
and that the web of lies was much deeper still.
He explained that the stolen money we recovered,
the funds used to pay off the massive debts,
might only be a fraction of the total amount,
and that Rebecca might have hidden a large sum.
He asked if I could come down to the precinct,
to review some new documents he had uncovered,
and to see if I recognized any of the account names,
or the strange corporate entities listed on them.
I agreed immediately,
abandoning my list of mundane daily chores,
and I quickly changed into some presentable clothes,
grabbing my coat and my car keys from the hook.
The drive downtown was tense and frustrating,
battling the heavy morning commuter traffic,
my mind spinning with terrifying new possibilities,
and the sickening thought that she had won again.
If she had a massive stash of hidden money,
waiting for her when she finally got out of prison,
then the justice I felt yesterday was a complete joke,
a hollow victory built on a foundation of lies.
I parked in the cramped municipal garage,
and I hurried across the busy, noisy street,
entering the towering, gray police headquarters,
feeling a familiar sense of dread washing over me.
I checked in at the bulletproof front desk,
and I was directed to the elevator in the back,
riding it up to the bustling fourth floor,
where the financial crimes unit was located.
Detective Vance was waiting for me near the door,
a tall, broad-shouldered man with tired eyes,
holding a thick manila folder under his arm,
and motioning for me to follow him to his desk.
He offered me a seat in a hard wooden chair,
and he opened the file on the cluttered desk,
spreading out dozens of printed bank statements,
covered in lines of bright yellow highlighter ink.
I braced myself for another painful plunge,
diving back into the dark depths of the fraud,
May you like
ready to fight this battle all over again,
determined to uncover every single stolen dime.
