The front door swung open, and the December wind cut through the foyer like a blade. Four FBI agents stood on the porch, their tactical jackets glowing under the porch light. Richard and Preston didn’t even look at each other. They just stared at the floor.
I didn’t say a word. I simply pointed toward the living room, where the three binders sat on the glass coffee table, filled with every transaction, every wire transfer, every lie they had ever told. The lead agent nodded and read the charges. Wire fraud.
Money laundering. Conspiracy. Elder financial abuse. Richard finally looked up at me, his face pale.
“You vindictive little—”
“Take them,” I said quietly. The agents moved. Handcuffs clicked. Preston was crying before they even reached the door.
I didn’t watch them leave. I didn’t need to. I walked back into the living room and found Martha standing by the fireplace, a glass of champagne already in her hand. She handed me one.
“Happy New Year, partner,” she said. I took a sip. For the first time in fifteen years, the house felt quiet. But I hadn’t told them everything.
I hadn’t told them about the fourth binder. The one with my name on it.