Chapter 3 - The Mexican Standoff
The police station was a blur of fluorescent lights,
stale coffee,
and the sound of clicking keyboards.
My lawyer,
a shark of a woman named Diana,
sat beside me in the interrogation room.
She had already seen the "evidence" and was unimpressed.
“This is amateur hour,
Evelyn,”
she whispered,
leaning close.
“A hardware wallet in a drawer?
It’s too convenient.
The police know it,
but they have to follow the protocol because the firm’s board of directors is panicking.”
I leaned back,
closing my eyes for a moment.
“They’re in Cancun,
Diana.
They think they’re untouchable.”
Diana smiled,
a thin,
predatory movement of her lips.
“They forgot one thing.
You’re the one who designed the firm’s internal security architecture.”
A spark of realization ignited in my mind.
When I had built the firm’s servers,
I hadn't just protected them from hackers.
I had created a shadow log,
a secondary backup that recorded every login and every file change,
accessible only through a physical key I kept on my person.
I reached into my pocket and felt the small,
silver thumb drive I always carried on my keychain.
“I have the logs,”
I said,
my voice gaining a new,
vibrant strength.
“I can prove exactly when Ryan accessed the accounts and when he forged those messages.”
Just then,
the door opened and Officer Miller walked in.
He looked frustrated.
“Well,
Mrs. Sterling,”
he said,
sitting across from us.
“Your husband just tried to make another transaction from Cancun.”
I tilted my head.
“But I cancelled the cards.”
Miller nodded.
“He tried to wire two million dollars from the firm’s primary escrow account to a private bank in the Cayman Islands.”
Diana let out a short,
sharp laugh.
“And since the cards were flagged for fraud,
the bank blocked the transfer and alerted the Mexican authorities.”
“That’s not all,”
Miller added,
leaning forward.
“The Mexican police went to their resort to question them about the transfer.”
“And?”
I asked,
my heart skipping a beat.
“They found five pounds of high-grade narcotics in the trunk of their rental car,”
Miller said,
watching my reaction closely.
“And a set of forged passports.”
I blinked,
completely stunned.
I knew Ryan was a liar and a cheat,
but drugs?
Passports?
That didn't sound like him.
Then I remembered Vanessa.
Vanessa,
who had dated a high-level smuggler in her twenties.
Vanessa,
who always had a taste for the dangerous side of life.
She wasn't just his mistress;
she was his downfall.
“It seems,”
Diana said,
looking at the officer,
“that the 'happy couple' has found themselves in a much larger cage than a marriage.”
I looked at the silver drive in my hand.
“I can still give you the proof for the embezzlement,”
May you like
I said.
“But it sounds like I should start preparing the divorce papers for a prisoner.”
