Chapter 3 - The Audit
By 8:30 AM the next morning, the morning sun was streaming through the shattered glass we hadn’t yet swept from the dining room floor.
Jonathan Vance, a senior partner from one of Chicago’s most aggressive white-collar litigation firms, sat at our kitchen counter alongside a quiet, sharp-eyed woman named Sarah who had three encrypted laptops open before her.
I sat across from them, holding a cup of black coffee, while Noah sat in the family room watching cartoons, safe and warm in his oversized college hoodie.
“The forged HELOC documents are amateurish at best,” Jonathan said, sliding his reading glasses down his nose as he reviewed the papers from Ethan’s briefcase. “Whoever forged your signature used a digital trace from your old tax returns, but they made a critical error on the county notary stamp. This isn’t just civil fraud, Claire. This is grand larceny and forgery.”
“Can we lock down the accounts before Ethan tries to access them?” I asked.
“They’re already frozen,” Sarah the auditor replied without looking up from her screen. She tapped a key, and a complex web of financial transfers lit up her display. “Mr. Cole didn't just target your home equity. Over the past fourteen months, he’s been siphoning operational revenue from your beauty company into a private checking account under Madison Miller’s maiden name—totaling just over three hundred and forty thousand dollars.”
My stomach tightened. Three hundred and forty thousand dollars. Money I had earned working eighty-hour weeks while Ethan played golf with his "colleagues" and his mother complained that my chicken wasn't cooked right.
“Can we recover it?” I asked quietly.
“Every single dime,” Jonathan said, offering a reassuring smile. “And we can attach his future wages, his car, and any personal assets he holds. Furthermore, because he attempted to encumber your pre-marital real estate with fraudulent debt, the divorce proceedings won’t just be messy for him—they’ll be devastating.”
Just as Jonathan finished his sentence, the heavy brass knocker on our front door banged twice.
Thump, thump.
Then the doorbell began to ring in a frantic, continuous sequence.
I stood up, smoothing down my sweater, and walked to the front hallway. I looked through the peephole.
Ethan was standing on the porch. His hair was disheveled, his suit jacket was unbuttoned, and behind him stood Diane, her face twisted into an ugly mask of pure panic.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open just enough to block the threshold.
“Claire!” Ethan gasped, lunging forward as if to push past me. “Thank god. Look, we need to talk. You shouldn’t have called Jonathan Vance; he’s a shark, he’ll blow this whole thing out of proportion—where is my briefcase?”
“Your briefcase is inside,” I said, my voice completely steady. “Along with the forensic accountant who just mapped out every dollar you stole from my company to fund your apartment with Madison.”
Ethan froze. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a ghost.
“You... you looked inside the folder?” he whispered.
“I looked at everything,” I replied.
Diane pushed her way past her son, stepping right up to my door with her finger pointed straight at my chest.
“You listen to me, you ungrateful little tramp!” Diane shrieked, her voice echoing down the quiet townhouse corridor. “My son gave you his name! He put up with your provincial family and your loud-mouthed little brother! You have no right to lock him out of his own home!”
“It’s not his home, Diane,” I said softly.
I reached behind me and pulled a crisp, formal document from the counter.
“And as of five minutes ago, he doesn’t have a wife, either.”
I handed the papers directly to Ethan. They were stamped by the Cook County Superior Court clerk’s office: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage on Grounds of Fraud, Adultery, and Financial Misappropriation.
Ethan looked down at the papers, his hands trembling violently.
“Claire... please,” he choked out, his arrogance completely dissolving into pathetic desperation. “Madison doesn't mean anything. It was a mistake. We can go to counseling. We can fix this—”
“You can fix it with Madison,” I interrupted, stepping back and closing the heavy oak door halfway. “Because by the time you get back to your office today, your keycard won't work, your corporate accounts will be frozen, and the only thing waiting for you at home will be a process server.”
“You can’t do this!” Diane screamed, slamming her fist against the wood. “We’ll ruin you! We’ll tell everyone what a monster you are!”
“Tell whoever you want,” I said through the crack in the door. “Just make sure you have a new address by sundown. Because the movers arrive at noon.”
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Click.
I threw the deadbolt.
