Every word carefully chosen. When he mentioned needing to go to the gym, I manufactured an urgent client crisis that required immediate attention at my office. He barely looked up from his tablet, waving goodbye with the distraction of someone whose mind was already elsewhere.
My office building stood empty on Sunday morning. Just security guards and the ghosts of financial crimes. I locked myself in my corner office overlooking Park Avenue and opened my laptop with the determination of someone about to perform surgery on their own life.
The forensic accounting software I used to track corporate fraud would now dissect my personal finances. I started with our joint checking account. The past three months revealed a pattern so subtle I would have missed it without looking specifically for theft.
Transfers of $9,999. Just below the federal reporting threshold. Moving to accounts I didn’t recognize.
The receiving banks were in the Caymans, notorious for their privacy laws and resistance to international investigation. Each transfer had been authorized with my husband’s credentials during times when Marcus had been sitting across from me at dinner or sleeping beside me in bed. The real Aiden was somewhere else, systematically bleeding our accounts while his hired double kept me distracted with perfect impersonations of domestic bliss.
I traced the money through three shell companies, each registered in different jurisdictions, each leading to another dead end. LuxCorp International in the Caymans, Meridian Holdings in Panama, Apex Investments in Cyprus. Corporate structures designed to launder money and hide assets from people exactly like me.
The trail went cold at Swiss banks whose privacy laws were legendary. Fifteen years of savings, investments, and careful financial planning vanishing into numbered accounts I could see but couldn’t touch. The scope of the theft made me physically ill.
$400,000 from our investment portfolio. $600,000 from the home equity line we’d never used. Another $300,000 from various retirement accounts, all taken as loans that wouldn’t trigger immediate alerts.
$1.3 million, methodically extracted while I slept next to a stranger who’d memorized my coffee preferences. But the money was just the beginning. When I accessed my professional client database, I found something worse.
Login records showed access from IP addresses I didn’t recognize, downloads of sensitive financial data from three major corporate audits I’d conducted, information that, in the wrong hands, could facilitate insider trading worth tens of millions. I pulled up Madison Vale’s professional profile. Pharmaceutical sales representative seemed like a cover story now.
Her LinkedIn showed connections to several hedge fund managers, the kind who operated in legal gray areas and weren’t particular about where their information originated. Her travel history on social media aligned perfectly with suspicious trades in pharmaceutical stocks that had occurred just before major FDA announcements. They weren’t just stealing from me.
They were using my reputation, my access, my client relationships to commit federal crimes. Every unauthorized login, every stolen file, every suspicious trade would trace back to my credentials. I’d discovered I wouldn’t just lose money.
I’d lose my license, my career, potentially my freedom. I needed help beyond what Sophia could provide. Grace Morrison answered on the third ring, her voice rough with sleep.
We’d been friends since she was an ambitious prosecutor and I was testifying as an expert witness in fraud cases. Her divorce from a judge who’d been taking bribes had ended her career at the DA’s office, but sharpened her understanding of how the system failed women who discovered their husbands were criminals. “Ava, it’s seven in the morning on Sunday.”
“I need your help. Can you meet me at my office?” Something in my voice must have conveyed the urgency. “Twenty minutes,” she said and hung up.
Grace arrived looking like she’d thrown on the first clothes she could find, her prosecutorial instincts still sharp despite three years in private practice. I showed her everything. The financial transfers, the stolen client data, the photographs of Marcus’s briefcase contents.
She studied the evidence with the focused intensity that had once made defense attorneys nervous. “This is sophisticated,” she finally said. “Professional-level identity theft combined with financial fraud and corporate espionage.”
“But here’s your problem.” Everything is technically authorized. Your husband’s credentials were used.
His biometrics, his passwords. Without proving he wasn’t actually present for these transactions, you’re looking at a he-said, she-said situation. “But I have proof that Marcus Webb has been impersonating him.”
An actor who could claim he was hired for a legitimate reason. Maybe Aiden wanted to surprise you. Maybe it was research for something.
Without Aiden here to contradict that story, and with him presumably ready to deny everything from wherever he’s hiding, the authorities won’t act fast enough. By the time they investigate, the money will be gone and the evidence will disappear. My phone buzzed.
Not my regular phone, but the encrypted one Sophia had given me. I’d left it hidden in my desk drawer. The notification showed a new message on an app I didn’t recognize.
Grace leaned over as I opened it. A single text from an unknown number. “Check Aiden’s old phone.”
I looked at Grace. “Who else knows about this?” “Someone who wants you to find something,” she said. “This feels like breadcrumbs.”
We drove back to my apartment together. Marcus was still at the gym, his Sunday routine predictable as clockwork. I went straight to Aiden’s home office, to the desk drawer where he kept old electronics he claimed to be recycling but never actually disposed of.
His previous iPhone sat there, screen cracked from when he dropped it getting out of a taxi six months ago. I pressed the power button not expecting anything. The screen flickered to life.
5% battery but alive. The phone had been receiving messages for months while supposedly broken. I opened the messages with shaking fingers.
There was a conversation with Madison Vale going back eight months. Plans, photos, and details that made my blood run cold. “The wife suspects nothing.”
Aiden had written three months ago. “Marcus is perfect.” “By the time she figures it out we’ll be untouchable.”
The most recent message was from yesterday. “Tomorrow we finalize everything.” “Our usual place in Paris then disappear forever.”
Grace stared at the phone screen, her prosecutor’s mind already building the case. “Tomorrow is Monday.” If they’re planning to finalize everything we need to act tonight.
I felt something shift inside me, the fear and confusion crystallizing into cold determination. The same focus that helped me unravel million-dollar fraud schemes would now protect what remained of my life. I handed Grace the phone and moved to my laptop with newfound purpose.
“What are you doing?” Grace asked.
“Setting a trap.” Aiden might have stolen my money, but he forgot that I’m the one who knows how to track it.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, creating something beautiful in its simplicity. A financial virus disguised as routine investment documents that would appear in our shared cloud storage. The code was elegant, designed to activate the moment anyone accessed our joint accounts from an international IP address.
When triggered, it would freeze every transaction, lock down all associated accounts, and simultaneously alert federal investigators to suspicious activity. “Is that legal?” Grace watched over my shoulder.
“It’s my own account.” I’m protecting my assets from theft. Completely legal.
I embedded the virus in files labeled “Q3 Investment Review” and “Tax Documents 2024.” Aiden’s arrogance would be his downfall. He always checked our investments before major decisions.
A habit from his banking days that even crime hadn’t broken. The apartment door opened. Marcus was back from the gym, whistling something tuneless.
Grace and I exchanged glances. She understood immediately, slipping Aiden’s phone into her purse while I closed my laptop. “Working on Sunday again?” Marcus appeared in the doorway, gym bag over his shoulder, performance-perfect sweat on his forehead. “You really should take a break.”
“Just finishing up,” I said, my voice steady. “Grace stopped by to discuss a case we’re collaborating on.” He nodded at Grace with practiced charm.
“Good to see you.” “Will you stay for lunch?” “Actually,” I said standing up, “I was thinking we could have lunch at that place in Astoria. You know, where we went after our honeymoon.”
“They had that amazing grilled octopus.” Marcus’s smile never wavered, but I saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. We’d never been to Astoria together.
The real Aiden and I had honeymooned in Santorini, not Greece as I’d mentioned. But Marcus didn’t know that. “Astoria?” He repeated, buying time.
“The little taverna where we danced until dawn.” “You said it was the most romantic night of your life.” Grace watched our exchange like a tennis match, recognizing the test I was administering.
Marcus’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Of course,” he said finally. “Though I thought it was closed for renovations.”
A complete fabrication to cover his ignorance. The place I described didn’t exist. I smiled warmly, playing the devoted wife while documenting another crack in his performance.
“You’re probably right.” Let’s just order Thai food instead. The relief in his shoulders was visible.
Grace excused herself, taking the evidence with her. As Marcus headed to shower, I made three phone calls that would light fires under Aiden’s carefully constructed scheme. First, Robert Steinberg, CEO of Steinberg Industries and Aiden’s biggest client.
I kept my tone conversational, concerned but not alarmed. “Robert, I’m so sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I noticed some unusual activity in your company’s investment portfolio while reviewing adjacent accounts.” Nothing serious, probably just a clerical error, but you might want to have your team take a look.
The seed of doubt planted, watered with just enough concern to trigger an internal audit that would discover discrepancies leading back to Aiden’s unauthorized access. Second call, Jennifer Wu at Phoenix Capital. Same approach, different angle.
A mysterious transfer that didn’t match their usual patterns. “So strange, probably nothing but worth checking.” Third, David Martinez at Meridian Financial.
By Monday morning, three major firms would be discovering security breaches that all traced back to credentials associated with Aiden Mercer. My phone rang as I ended the third call. The caller ID showed my mother’s assisted living facility in New Jersey.
My chest tightened. Sunday afternoon calls usually meant medical emergencies. “Mrs. Chin.”
The voice belonged to Nancy, the facility director. “Your mother is fine, but she’s quite agitated.” She insists someone is lying about your husband visiting her.
“I’ll be right there.” The drive to New Jersey took 90 minutes, Marcus believing I was handling a crisis with my mother’s medication. The facility sat nestled among trees that were just beginning to turn gold, a peaceful setting for lives in their final chapters.
My mother’s room overlooked the garden, photos covering every surface, her memories made tangible. “Ava.” She grabbed my hands the moment I walked in, her grip stronger than her 82 years should allow.
“That woman is lying.” “I told her Aiden was here last month, but she says there’s no record.” Nancy stood in the corner looking apologetic.
“The visitor log shows no entry, but Mrs. Chin is adamant.” My mother’s dementia made her an unreliable witness in most situations, but she had moments of startling clarity, especially about recent events. “Tell me about his visit, Mom.”
“He came on a Thursday.” I remember because it was Pudding Day. He asked about your father’s life insurance, wanted to know if there were other policies besides the one you knew about.
“I told him about the Northwestern Mutual policy, the one your father never told you about.” Aiden said he wanted to make sure you were protected. My blood turned to ice.
There had been another policy, one I discovered only after Dad’s death. $500,000 that had gone to pay for Mom’s care. Few people knew about it.
“Did he ask about anything else?” The safety deposit box. He wanted to know which bank, what was in it.
I told him about your father’s coin collection, the one he thought would be valuable someday. I kissed her forehead, promising to come back soon and stepped into the hallway with Nancy. “Check your security footage from last month. Every Thursday.”
Nancy pulled up the files on her tablet. We scrolled through weeks of footage, residents coming and going, families visiting, staff changes. Then there he was.
August 15th, 2:47 p.m. Aiden walking through the front door, signing the visitor log, spending 43 minutes with my mother. But the log.
