PART 2
By the time Justin and I reached the house in Cherry Hills Village, the rain had turned to sleet.
The windshield wipers dragged back and forth with a tired groan, struggling against the sheets of water.
Justin sat rigidly in the passenger seat, his soaked jacket wrapped around him, his hands opening and closing as if he were still resisting the urge to strike Kenneth.
Neither of us spoke until I pulled into the driveway.
The house stood at the end of the curved stone path, every window dark except the light above the front door.
From the outside, it looked exactly as it always had—expensive, quiet, controlled.
A perfect home for a perfect marriage.
Justin stared at it through the rain.
“How long?” he asked.
His voice was hollow.
I switched off the engine.
“The investigator confirmed six months.”
“And before that?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned toward me. “You knew for six months?”
“I suspected Kenneth was stealing from the company. I hired someone to follow the money. Maya appeared in the photographs later.”
Justin laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“So while I was planning an anniversary trip, you were collecting pictures of my wife in hotel rooms.”
“I was trying to be certain.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “You don’t get to say that like it fixes anything.”
He shoved open the door and stepped into the rain.
I followed him inside.
The silence of the house pressed against us.
Kenneth’s shoes were arranged beneath the console table.
His coat hung neatly in the entryway.
A framed photograph from our wedding stood beside a silver bowl filled with unopened mail.
In the picture, Kenneth’s hand rested around my waist.
At the time, I had thought it was affection.
Now it looked like ownership.
Justin picked up the photograph and stared at it.
Then he placed it facedown.
“Where’s the safe?” he asked.
“His office.”
We walked down the hall.
Kenneth rarely allowed anyone into that room.
He claimed it contained confidential contracts and sensitive client files.
Even the cleaning staff had been instructed to leave it untouched.
The door was locked.
I entered the code Kenneth had given me at the hospital.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
“He lied,” Justin said.
“Maybe.”
I crouched and examined the keypad.
Kenneth had once joked that people chose codes based on the things they loved most.
His birthday failed.
Our wedding anniversary failed.
Maya’s birthday failed.
Justin watched me carefully.
“What are you thinking?”
“That Kenneth doesn’t love people. He loves leverage.”
I entered the date of his appointment as chief operating officer of Rollins Global.
The lock clicked.
Justin’s expression hardened.
“Of course.”
The office smelled faintly of leather and cedar.
Kenneth’s desk stood beneath tall windows overlooking the garden, its surface almost unnaturally clean.
Behind it, concealed by a framed map of Colorado, was the safe.
I moved the painting aside.
The steel door was larger than I expected.
Kenneth’s combination opened it immediately.
Inside were three shelves.
The first contained cash.
Bundles of hundred-dollar bills were stacked in sealed plastic sleeves.
The second held jewelry boxes, passports, and two cell phones.
The third contained folders.
Dozens of them.
Each folder was labeled with a name.
Board members.
Executives.
Competitors.
Politicians.
Even members of my own family.
Justin reached past me and pulled out the folder bearing Maya’s name.
I caught his wrist.
“Don’t.”
“She’s my wife.”
“And you’re angry.”
“You think I’m going to protect her?”
“I think you should see everything before deciding what any of it means.”
He yanked his arm free but did not open the folder.
I removed the one labeled SABRINA.
It was thick.
Too thick.
Inside were copies of my medical records, photographs of me entering restaurants and offices, transcripts of private conversations, and detailed reports of meetings I had attended years before I met Kenneth.
Justin leaned over my shoulder.
“He was watching you before you were married.”
I turned the pages slowly.
The earliest report was dated seven years earlier.
Kenneth and I had supposedly met five years ago at a charity gala.
According to the file, he had been tracking me for almost two years before introducing himself.
There were notes about my habits.
My friendships.
My finances.
My weaknesses.
One page had been written by hand.
Subject seeks approval from father. Competitive with older siblings. Highly responsive to praise. Likely to confuse emotional dependence with loyalty.
I recognized Kenneth’s handwriting.
The room seemed to tilt.
Our first meeting replayed in my mind.
He had approached me near the ballroom terrace and told me he admired an article I had written about corporate restructuring.
I remembered being surprised that he had read it.
Now I understood.
He had studied me.
Every compliment had been selected in advance.
Every shared interest had been rehearsed.
Our love story had been a business strategy.
Justin read the note again.
“He targeted you.”
I could barely answer.
“Yes.”
Beneath the reports was a sealed envelope containing a copy of our prenuptial agreement.
Certain clauses had been highlighted, especially the provisions regarding my voting shares.
At the bottom of the safe lay a black ledger.
I carried it to Kenneth’s desk and opened it.
The entries were written in code, but I recognized the financial structure immediately.
Offshore transfers.
Shell companies.
Consulting fees paid to businesses that did not exist.
Over four years, nearly thirty-eight million dollars had disappeared from Rollins Global.
Justin paced behind me.
“Can you prove this is Kenneth?”
“The accounts connect to companies registered under false directors. But the authorization numbers came from his division.”
“Then call the police.”
“Not yet.”
He stopped. “Not yet?”
“If Kenneth did this alone, he wouldn’t keep evidence in our house.”
“Criminals make mistakes.”
“Kenneth doesn’t.”
The two secret phones sat on the desk between us.
I powered on the first.
It required a passcode.
The second opened with facial recognition, but Kenneth was in surgery across town.
Justin picked it up.
“We could hold it in front of him.”
“Assuming the doctors let us near him.”
“What about fingerprints?”
I looked toward the safe.
A clear plastic pouch contained a small glass plate and what appeared to be a silicone fingerprint replica.
Justin stared at it.
“That man planned for everything.”
I pressed the replica against the phone’s sensor.
The screen unlocked.
Messages flooded the display.
Most were from contacts identified only by initials.
They discussed shipments, contracts, internal investigations, and payments.
One thread mentioned a confidential defense technology proposal Rollins Global had developed eighteen months earlier.
That proposal had vanished after a competitor announced an almost identical system.
My father had blamed industrial espionage.
The board had quietly abandoned the project.
Kenneth had sold it.
I opened an attachment and found a payment confirmation for nine million dollars.
The receiving account belonged to a company based in Cyprus.
Justin read over my shoulder.
“You said there was missing money. You didn’t say treason.”
“It isn’t treason unless the technology was classified.”
“Was it?”
“Parts of it were being reviewed by the Department of Defense.”
His face lost what little color remained.
A message appeared at the top of the screen.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
The hospital incident changes nothing. Destroy the Rollins files before sunrise.
Justin and I looked at each other.
Another message followed.
You were warned not to involve the sister.
The sister.
Me.
I typed a reply.
Who is this?
The response came immediately.
Stop pretending, Kenneth.
I didn’t answer.
