Chapter 6
Rebecca filed emergency motions before lunch.
By three, a judge had temporarily frozen transfers from MRL Holdings and prohibited Daniel, Diane, and Lauren from selling or further encumbering the house.
It was only temporary.
But it stopped the bleeding.
Then Rebecca looked at me.
“Now we preserve evidence.”
That meant my home.
My laptop was still there.
So were paper records.
Tax files.
Old business documents.
Possibly whatever Diane had carried in that folder.
A police officer accompanied me back because of Daniel grabbing my wrist.
Megan refused to stay behind.
When we pulled onto my street, Daniel’s car was gone.
So was Lauren’s.
Diane’s sedan wasn’t there either.
My front door stood slightly open.
The officer immediately told us to remain outside.
He entered first.
A few minutes later, he returned.
“House is empty.”
I stepped inside.
My home looked wrong.
Not destroyed.
Disturbed.
Desk drawers open.
Kitchen cabinets ajar.
Closet doors wide.
My office had been searched.
I ran upstairs.
My laptop was gone.
So was the external hard drive where I kept years of personal records.
“Daniel.”
Megan stood behind me.
“He took everything.”
I checked my jewelry box.
My grandmother’s ring was still there.
Daniel wasn’t interested in valuables.
He wanted information.
The officer photographed the rooms.
Rebecca had warned me not to accuse Daniel of stealing property he might claim as marital unless I knew something specific belonged only to me.
The company hard drive did.
It contained Hartwell Interiors archives.
“That drive is business property.”
The officer wrote it down.
Then Megan called from the bedroom.
“Sarah.”
I walked in.
She was staring at the closet.
Half of Daniel’s clothes were missing.
Suitcases too.
“He left.”
My stomach tightened.
I checked the bathroom.
His toiletries were gone.
On the counter sat my wedding ring.
Not his.
Mine.
I stared at it.
“I left that in my jewelry dish before Chicago.”
Megan looked furious.
“He put it there like a message.”
I didn’t touch it.
The officer photographed it.
Then my phone rang.
Marcus.
“We found something.”
“What?”
“Security camera archive.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“What camera?”
“The loading dock.”
Hartwell Interiors had cameras at every exterior entrance.
The system retained footage for ninety days.
Marcus had been reviewing access logs with our IT company.
“Diane came into the office at eleven forty-three at night three weeks ago.”
My pulse quickened.
“Was she alone?”
“No.”
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“Lauren?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
All three.
Together.
At my company.
After midnight.
Marcus continued.
“They entered using Daniel’s temporary access badge.”
“Temporary?”
“You gave him one last year when we were renovating the lobby.”
I remembered.
Daniel had helped coordinate furniture deliveries for one week.
I never asked for the badge back.
I felt sick.
“How long were they inside?”
“Two hours and sixteen minutes.”
“Can you see what they took?”
“Not from the exterior camera.”
“Any interior footage?”
“Most internal cameras overwrite every thirty days.”
“Most?”
“The server-room camera keeps ninety.”
I stood.
“Why?”
“Insurance requirement.”
“What does it show?”
“I haven’t watched everything yet.”
Then Marcus went quiet.
“Sarah, you need to come here.”
We drove back.
By the time I reached the office, Marcus and our IT manager, Omar, were waiting in the conference room.
Omar looked uncomfortable.
“I restored deleted access logs.”
“Deleted by whom?”
“Administrator account.”
“Daniel?”
“The account was created under his name.”
He pulled up the video.
Timestamp: 12:31 a.m.
The server-room door opened.
Daniel entered first.
Diane followed carrying a portable scanner.
Lauren came last.
My hands tightened around the chair.
The three of them stood beside our file archive.
Daniel opened a cabinet.
He knew the code.
I had told him years earlier.
Trust again.
Diane removed folders.
Lauren photographed documents.
Then Daniel plugged something into our local backup computer.
Omar froze the image.
“That’s an external drive.”
“Could he copy everything?”
“Financial records, client files, employee information. Yes.”
Megan whispered, “Jesus.”
The footage continued.
At one point, Diane held up a sheet of paper.
Lauren pointed at something.
Daniel laughed.
No audio.
But I didn’t need it.
They were comfortable.
This wasn’t desperation.
It was routine.
Then Lauren walked toward the camera.
For one terrible second, I thought she had noticed it.
Instead, she placed a folder on top of a cabinet directly beneath the lens.
Omar paused the footage.
“Look.”
A label was visible.
Sarah — Capacity.
My stomach turned.
“Capacity?”
Rebecca, who had joined by phone, said, “They may have been building support for their claim that you were mentally or medically unable to manage your affairs.”
“But based on what?”
“We need that folder.”
Marcus looked at the screen.
“The cabinet is still there.”
We ran to the server room.
Nothing sat on top.
But when Marcus moved the cabinet away from the wall, an envelope fell behind it.
Lauren must have dropped it.
My name was written across the front.
Rebecca told us not to open it until we photographed everything.
Then we did.
Inside were printed emails.
Some were real.
Emails I had sent Daniel during stressful projects.
I’m exhausted.
I need a break.
I can’t keep working like this forever.
Normal things.
But between them were messages I had never written.
I’m losing control.
Sometimes I don’t remember signing things.
If anything happens, you should handle the company.
I stared at the pages.
“They created an entire history.”
Omar picked up one printout.
“These headers look wrong.”
“What does that mean?”
“It may have been fabricated rather than actually sent.”
Rebecca spoke through the phone.
“Good. Preserve all of it.”
Then Megan pulled one final page from the envelope.
It wasn’t an email.
It was a letter addressed To Whom It May Concern.
The letter claimed I had been evaluated for severe cognitive impairment.
A doctor’s name appeared at the bottom.
Dr. Alan Reeves.
I had never met him.
I called the number listed.
Disconnected.
Omar searched the address.
It belonged to an empty office suite.
The entire medical story was fake.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A text.
Stop digging if you want your company to survive.
Attached was a photograph.
My missing corporate hard drive sat on a wooden table.
Beside it was a hammer.
Megan looked at me.
“Daniel?”
I stared at the message.
“No.”
The number was unknown.
But I recognized the bracelet on the wrist visible at the edge of the photograph.
May you like
I had seen it the night before while its owner held a drink in my living room.
Lauren.
