Chapter 4 - THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Twenty minutes after hanging up with Evan, a knock came at the door of the hotel suite.
I checked the peep hole before sliding the latch. Standing in the hallway was a tall woman in her late forties, wearing a tailored navy coat and holding a leather briefcase.
Her name was Detective Karen Reyes—a former LAPD detective turned private investigator whom I had hired two hours ago via a high-end legal referral network in Seattle.
"Mrs. Vance?" Reyes asked, stepping into the room as I opened the door.
"It's Mara Whitmore," I corrected her firmly. "I'm dropping his name."
Reyes nodded approvingly, stepping inside and glancing around the suite. My parents and Caleb were now clean, dressed in soft cotton loungewear, eating warm soup from room service at the dining table. Caleb looked smaller without the oversized sweatshirt, but his eyes were bright, and for the first time, he was eating eagerly.
"I ran the preliminary checks on your husband—or rather, Evan Vance," Reyes said, opening her briefcase on the desk. "What I found is worse than financial fraud, Mara."
"Tell me," I said, leaning against the desk.
"Evan Vance isn't just a vice president at Apex Development," Reyes explained, laying out a series of printed court documents and financial ledgers. "He’s been laundering money through shell companies registered in Oregon and Nevada. Five years ago, when you took the caretaking contract in Basel, Evan was deep in debt to several underground gambling syndicates in Vancouver."
My eyes widened. "My salary..."
"Your salary was his lifeline," Reyes confirmed. "The three thousand dollars a month you wired home wasn't going into a construction fund for a family home. It was going toward paying off interest on his gambling debts. But then he realized something: you were making good money in Switzerland, and you weren't there to check the books."
Reyes pulled out a photograph of the Queen Anne mansion I had seen online.
"Three years ago, Evan met Victoria Sterling," Reyes continued. "Her father owns Sterling Logistics, one of the biggest commercial shipping firms on the West Coast. Victoria’s father refused to let her marry anyone who wasn't financially established. So, Evan used your money—and a forged power of attorney he created using your absence—to secure a fraudulent bank loan. He bought this mansion, paid off his debts, and presented himself as a self-made real estate genius."
"And my family?" I asked, my voice trembling with rage. "Why keep them on the streets?"
"Because if your parents stayed in a nice apartment, people would ask questions," Reyes said coldly. "If he gave them money, there would be a paper trail. By declaring your parents destitute and claiming you abandoned Caleb, he cut them off completely. He kept them terrified by using a local private security guard named Marcus Vance—his cousin—to trail them."
"The black SUV," I realized out loud.
"Exactly," Reyes said. "Marcus was hired to ensure your parents never went to the press or the police. Every time your parents tried to seek help at a social service agency, Marcus would show up, threaten to have Caleb taken away by Child Protective Services, and force them back onto the street."
I turned to look at Caleb, who was currently laughing at a cartoon on the hotel television while my mother brushed his hair.
"He used my own child as a hostage," I whispered.
"He did," Reyes agreed. "And here's the kicker: his wedding to Victoria Sterling is scheduled for this Saturday at the Grand Bellevue Resort. It’s a million-dollar event. If news breaks before Saturday that he’s married to an American caretaker, that he forged court documents, and that he forced his in-laws into homelessness, Victoria’s father will destroy him legally and financially."
I looked down at the documents laid out on the table.
For five years, Evan had treated my family like pawns in his sick, twisted ascent to wealth. He had stolen my youth, my hard work, my mother's dignity, my father's health, and my son's childhood.
He thought he had covered every angle. He thought I was still the naive, trusting wife who would blindly follow his directions to a fake house.
"Detective Reyes," I said, turning to her with absolute clarity. "How fast can you freeze his personal accounts?"
May you like
Reyes smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin. "With the evidence of fraud and forgery you brought from Switzerland? My legal team can have an emergency injunction in front of a federal judge by eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Good," I said. "Because I don't just want him in prison, Reyes. I want him to watch everything he built vanish before he gets there."
