Chapter 3 - The Anatomy of a Lie
While the police cars sped away with Jonathan,
I retreated to the bridal suite to change into real clothes.
I threw the black bodysuit into the trash;
I didn't want to keep anything that reminded me of my role as a victim.
I put on a simple pair of jeans and a sweater,
feeling the air on my skin in a way I hadn't in years.
Sarah entered the room,
carrying a laptop and several folders.
“The forensic sweep is complete,”
she said.
“The shell companies he set up in your name are linked directly to the accounts he used to pay off the witnesses of Clara’s accident.”
I nodded,
my mind shifting back to the numbers.
As a forensic accountant,
I knew that money always left a trail,
no matter how much someone tried to cover it with perfume and lies.
Jonathan had been arrogant enough to use my digital signature for everything.
He thought I was too stupid to understand the logs.
He didn't realize that every time he gave me a ‘gift,’
I was logging into his private server through the encrypted phone he thought he had wiped.
The private ledger I had found behind the false panel was the final nail in the coffin.
It wasn't just a list of bribes.
It was a diary of his crimes,
a meticulous record of every person he had stepped on to reach the top.
He had kept it because he was a narcissist who wanted to remember his ‘victories.’
“How much is left?”
I asked.
“Of the Duncan fortune?”
Sarah laughed.
“Once the IRS gets through with the audits,
and once Clara files for her share of the assets as the legal,
non-dead spouse,
there will be nothing.
Jonathan is currently about forty million dollars in debt to the government.”
I felt a weight lift off my chest.
He had tried to use me as a shield against his debt,
thinking that by marrying me,
he could transfer the liability to my name and then divorce me.
He would have walked away with the cash,
leaving me to face a prison sentence for fraud.
But I had flipped the script.
By exposing the fraud before the marriage was legalized by the state,
the contracts he forced me to sign were void.
I wasn't his wife.
I was his executioner.
I walked out of the church,
past the reporters who were now swarming the gates.
They shouted questions,
their microphones thrust into my face.
“Miss Miller,
did you know about his first wife?”
“How long have you been planning this?”
I didn't say a word.
I didn't need to.
The evidence spoke louder than any interview ever could.
I saw Rosalind sitting on a stone bench,
her face pale as she watched the movers begin to seize the assets from the reception hall.
The caterers were packing up the caviar and the champagne,
knowing they would never be paid.
She looked at me with a hatred that could have burned through steel.
“You ruined everything,”
she hissed.
“We gave you a life.”
I stopped and looked down at her.
“You gave me a cage,”
May you like
I said quietly.
“And you forgot that I’m the one who knows how to pick locks.”
