Chapter 8 - The Net Closes
Within two hours, the federal investigation expanded from a corporate embezzlement inquiry into a full-scale multi-jurisdictional conspiracy case. Federal agents from the FBI’s white-collar crime division arrived at the firm’s headquarters, taking over the executive floor, seizing digital servers, and subpoenaing financial records across three continents.
Julian Vance was transferred from the building’s private holding room directly into federal custody, his arrogant demeanor completely shattered once he realized his own hidden camera had been used by his own allies to destroy him. He had tried to sink me, but in doing so, he had dragged Clara down with him.
My phone—the backup device I had activated—rang continuously.
Unknown numbers, local reporters, law enforcement investigators, and finally, a number I recognized instantly.
Clara’s cell phone.
I stared at the screen as it buzzed against the wooden desk, her name flashing brightly in the center of the display. I let it ring out. It went to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it started buzzing again.
I picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and brought it to my ear without saying a word.
"Marcus!" Clara’s voice came through the speaker, frantic, breathless, and hysterical. The fake, calm facade was completely gone, replaced by raw, primal panic. "Marcus, please, you have to help me! The federal police—two agents just came to my hotel room. They searched my bags, they confiscated my laptop, they’re talking about arrest warrants and asset seizure!"
"Where are you?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
"I’m... I’m at the Annapolis Harbor Hotel, room 412," she sobbed, the sound of her crying grating against my nerves like sandpaper. "Marcus, Julian called me from custody. He said you found the video. He said you gave it to the feds. How could you do that? We were married! We were supposed to be a team!"
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped my lips. "A team, Clara? Is that what you call conspiring with my business partner to embezzle three point five million dollars while sleeping in our bed?"
Silence fell on the other end of the line, broken only by her ragged breathing and muffled sobs.
"Marcus... please," she whispered, her voice dropping to a desperate plea. "I was weak. Julian manipulated me, he promised me financial security, he—"
"Save it for the federal prosecutor, Clara," I interrupted, my tone cutting through her excuses like a chainsaw. "Julian already sent me the full audio and video logs. I know about the Swiss accounts. I know about the Cayman shell companies. I know you were an active partner in the entire scheme from day one."
"Marcus, don't do this!" she screamed, hysteria rising in her throat. "If I go to federal prison, my life is over! I'll lose everything! Can't we make a deal? Can't we talk about this?"
"The time for talking ended yesterday when I walked through our front door and saw your clothes scattered across the stairs," I said quietly. "Goodbye, Clara."
I hung up the phone, powered it down, and removed the battery.
I walked over to the office coat rack, picked up my tailored wool overcoat, and slipped it on. Arthur Pendelton was standing in the doorway of my office, watching me with a somber, respectful expression.
"The federal agents have her in custody, Marcus," Arthur said quietly. "They picked her up at the hotel ten minutes ago. She's being transported to the federal holding facility downtown."
I nodded slowly, adjusting my cuffs. "Thank you, Arthur."
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"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going home," I said, walking past him toward the elevators. "I have a house to clean out."
