Chapter 3 - The Investigator and the Alibi
The rain drummed a relentless, frantic rhythm against the windowpanes of Meredith’s Chicago high-rise condo, mirroring the jagged pulse of her thoughts. It was 3:14 AM, but sleep was a luxury she had uninstalled from her life alongside familial obligation. On her dining table, spread out like a morbid autopsy report, were three years of bank statements, tax returns, wire receipts, and text message transcripts.
Her phone chimed softly—a notification from a secure encrypted messaging app.
It was a file from Arthur Vance. True to his word, he had sent every scrap of digital correspondence he had exchanged with Sabine regarding the illegal rental of the Wisconsin lake house. Meredith opened the PDF, her eyes scanning the chat logs with forensic intensity.
There was Sabine’s profile picture—a soft-focus artistic portrait of her holding a paintbrush, looking like an ethereal victim of the capitalist machine. The text messages were worse. Sabine hadn't just rented the house; she had marketed it as her own personal family estate, telling Vance and his group that her "controlling, estranged older sister" occasionally tried to cause trouble, and that they should ignore anyone who showed up claiming ownership.
*“If a woman named Meredith comes by,”* Sabine had texted Vance three days before their arrival, *“just tell her you’re my personal guests. She’s going through a mental health crisis and likes to pretend she owns everything the family touches.”*
Meredith stared at the glowing screen, the words burning themselves into her retinas. Her own sister had pathologized her competence, turning her financial support and protective instincts into symptoms of a mental defect, all to justify a four-thousand-five-dollar scam.
Her phone vibrated again. This time it was an email from Marcus Thorne, a licensed private investigator in Napa Valley whom she had retained two hours earlier using a retainer fee that could have bought a used sedan.
The subject line read: *Wrencrest Estate Surveillance Update — 02:15 PST.*
Meredith tapped the message open. Attached were three high-resolution digital photographs taken with a long-range telephoto lens from outside the perimeter of Wrencrest Estate.
The first photo showed her father, Peter Kellan, sitting comfortably on the flagstone patio, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, laughing heartily alongside a man Meredith recognized from Facebook as Nolan Price’s father.
The second photo captured her mother, Marjorie, sitting at the outdoor dining table beneath a string of fairy lights, wearing a designer cashmere shawl that Meredith distinctly remembered seeing on a $1,200 invoice from a boutique in Chicago—an invoice Marjorie had asked Meredith to "help cover" during a routine grocery run last autumn.
The third photo was a tight crop of Sabine and Nolan Price standing near the estate’s infinity pool. Sabine was holding a smartphone, her face flushed with wine and laughter, looking every bit the triumphant heiress of a fortune she had never earned a single hour to build.
Below the photographs, Marcus Thorne had typed a concise, professional assessment:
*Ms. Kellan, subjects are currently occupying the primary residence and guest cottage under your corporate account credentials. Security detail at Wrencrest reports zero financial discrepancies on their end due to the secondary card authorization processed earlier this evening. However, local public records indicate that Sabine Kellan has listed three separate upcoming rental dates for the Wisconsin lake house on an underground vacation-rental aggregator forum under an alias. If you wish to shut down the secondary property exposure permanently before the weekend rush, advise.*
Meredith wiped her hand across her face, feeling the cold slick of sweat on her skin. Sabine wasn't just running a one-off scam out of desperation; she had turned Meredith’s private sanctuary into a commercial enterprise, a recurring revenue stream to fund her bohemian lifestyle while her parents looked on with passive, smiling approval.
Meredith picked up her phone and dialed Marcus Thorne’s direct line. He answered on the second ring, his voice gravelly and alert despite the early hour.
"Kellan," Meredith said without preamble. "I got your file."
"Quiet night out here in wine country, Counselor," Thorne replied, his tone dry. "Your family is sleeping very well. Expensive sheets do that to people."
"I want you to change the parameters of your assignment," Meredith said, her voice dropping an octave. "I don't just want surveillance. I want a full asset trace on Sabine Kellan. Every bank account, every digital wallet, every hidden LLC she might have registered under her name or an alias."
"That’s going to take deeper financial subpoenas, Ms. Kellan. We’re talking about crossing state lines and digital currency tracking."
"Do it," Meredith commanded. "Spare no expense. Use my corporate retainer."
"Understood. And the lake house in Wisconsin?"
Meredith looked out the window at the rain-streaked Chicago skyline, the towering steel monoliths standing like silent sentinels in the dark.
"Leave the lake house alone for now," Meredith said slowly, a cold, calculated smile touching the corners of her mouth. "Let her list it. Let her take the deposits. Let her sign more fraudulent contracts."
Thorne paused on the other end of the line. "You're setting a trap."
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"I'm building a paper trail so wide and so deep that not even my mother can talk her way out of it," Meredith replied softly. "When the hammer drops, I want every single nail to hit home."
***
