We drove straight to Thomas’s office. He’d already prepared divorce papers, a criminal complaint for the forgery on the home equity loan, and an emergency motion to freeze all assets. «There’s a complication,» Thomas said once we were seated. «She filed a domestic violence claim against you yesterday. Says she left because of ongoing emotional abuse and financial control. Claimed she was in fear for her safety.»
«That’s absurd,» I said. «I’ve been 6,000 miles away for the past seven weeks.»
«Doesn’t matter. It’s a tactic to gain sympathy with the judge and justify taking the money,» Thomas explained. «Her lawyer’s pushing for an emergency hearing tomorrow to get a restraining order against you and exclusive use of the house.»
«So she wants to ban me from my own property while her boyfriend lives there?»
Thomas nodded. «And there’s more. The home equity loan—she already spent it. Transferred it to an LLC registered to Devin Forrester three days after receiving it.»
I took a deep breath. «Options?»
«We counter-file immediately. Fraud, forgery, alienation of affection, and criminal conspiracy based on those text messages. We request an emergency freeze on all her accounts and the LLC.» He slid a document across the desk. «And we file this.»
I looked down at the paper: Motion to Dismiss Domestic Violence Claim with Evidence of Perjury. «What evidence?»
Thomas smiled thinly. «Your location data from your company security badge shows you’ve been on that oil platform for seven continuous weeks. Your passport entry and exit stamps confirm it. And I subpoenaed your phone records showing all calls between you two for the past year. Nothing suggesting arguments or threats.»
I signed where indicated. «One more thing,» Thomas said. «We need you to appear surprised when she’s served. She can’t know you’re back yet. For now, you’re still officially at sea.»
I nodded. «I can do that.» As I left Thomas’s office, my phone buzzed with a text from Krista to my regular number. «Please call me. It’s an emergency. I need you.» I didn’t respond. The trap was set, but not by her.
I stayed at Brendan’s place that night, sleeping better than I had in weeks. The next morning, I logged into the security camera feed for our house in Odessa, a system I’d installed three years ago and maintained remotely. Krista had either forgotten about it or assumed I couldn’t access it from overseas.
The footage showed a young man lounging by the pool—our pool—drinking from my collection of whiskey and wearing what looked like my old college sweatshirt. He was on the phone with someone, laughing, his feet up on the outdoor furniture I’d built by hand. While I watched, Krista came into frame. She looked anxious, pacing as she talked. I couldn’t hear the audio, but her body language was clear: things weren’t going according to plan.
Brendan came in with coffee. «You should see this,» he said, opening his laptop. He’d spent the night diving deeper into Devin Forrester’s background. What he found changed everything.
«He’s done this before. Three times,» Brendan said, turning the screen toward me. Each time, it was the same pattern. He meets a woman—usually married, always financially stable. The relationship develops, the woman leaves her husband, taking whatever money she can, and they move away together. Within 18 months, he disappears with whatever’s left.
The screen showed news articles, court records, and social media posts. Three women across five years, all left financially ruined. One was still paying off credit card debt Devin had accumulated in her name.
«There’s more,» Brendan said quietly. «He was briefly a person of interest in the death of his second girlfriend’s ex-husband. A suspicious car accident six weeks after the divorce filing. The man went off a cliff on a road he’d driven for 20 years. No charges were ever filed, but…»
The implications hung in the air between us. My phone rang; it was Krista again on my regular number. I let it go to voicemail. «You should hear this,» Brendan said, playing the message on speaker.
«Miles, please. I need you to call the bank,» her voice cracked with what sounded like tears. «There’s been a misunderstanding with our account. I was just moving money to a safer investment like we talked about, but the bank froze everything. I can’t access any funds. Please call them and tell them it’s okay. I’m really scared.»
We had talked about no such thing. The performance was convincing; I’d have believed her two weeks ago.
«She’s desperate,» Thomas said when we met him for lunch. «The house closing in Palm Springs is in five days. They need that money.»
«What’s our next move?» I asked.
«The emergency hearing is this afternoon. Judge Winters is presiding, and she has zero tolerance for false domestic violence claims. We have your documented alibi ready.»
«And the bank funds?»
«We’ve filed to have them returned to you exclusively, but there’s something else you should know,» Thomas said, sliding a folder across the table. «Your neighbor Harold sent these to my office this morning.» Inside were photos of furniture being loaded into a moving truck. My furniture. Family heirlooms. Things that had been in my family for generations.
«They’re clearing out the house,» Thomas confirmed, «planning to disappear whether they get the bank money or not.»
I closed the folder and handed it back. «Change of plans.»
Both men looked at me. «I want to go home.»
«That’s not advisable before—» Thomas began.
«Not to confront them,» I clarified. «To watch. From Harold’s place. I want to see this with my own eyes. And I want to be there when they’re served. Not hiding behind legal papers. I want Krista to see my face when her world collapses.»
Thomas nodded slowly. «I’ll arrange it.»
As we left the restaurant, a text came through on my burner phone. It was from Harold. «They’re packing your grandfather’s desk now, the one you restored. Thought you’d want to know.» Some thefts go beyond money. Some betrayals cut deeper than others. This had just become personal in an entirely new way.
The six-hour drive to Odessa gave me time to think. Thomas arranged for the sheriff to serve papers at nine a.m. the next morning. Brendan set up surveillance from Harold’s house across the street, where I’d stay overnight. Everything was in place.
Harold greeted me with a silent handshake when I arrived just after midnight. He was a retired petroleum engineer who’d worked rigs himself for thirty years; no explanations were needed. «She has no idea you’re watching?» I asked once we were inside.
«None. They’ve been busy packing all day, loading the good stuff, leaving the rest.» He pointed to his front window, which had a clear view of my driveway. «Two moving trucks came and went. Big ones are coming tomorrow morning for the last load.»
I nodded, processing the information. «Anyone else been by?»
«Some woman with a clipboard yesterday. Looked like a real estate agent.»
That was unexpected. «They’re selling the house?»
«Listing it, it looks like. I saw her taking pictures.»
I called Thomas, who promised to check property records first thing in the morning. At three a.m., unable to sleep, I sat at Harold’s kitchen table reviewing the documentation Brendan had prepared: bank records showing Krista’s systematic draining of our accounts, phone records revealing hours of calls to Devin going back over a year, and credit card statements showing hotel charges in our own town on days she claimed to be visiting her sister. There was a cold clarity in seeing the evidence laid out—not just a momentary betrayal, but a calculated extraction.
