Chapter 5 - The Deeper Web
The digital portal for the county superior court displayed documents that made my blood run cold.
It was past midnight. The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic breathing of Ethan asleep in my room and Naya tossing on the pull-out sofa. The glow of my laptop screen illuminated the dark kitchen as I scrolled through PDF after PDF of court filings related to Michael Vance—Mike’s legal name.
He wasn't just a bigamist who embezzled funds from his firm.
According to the filings, Mike had been systematically draining assets from both his previous wife, Danielle, and now Naya, funneling money into offshore accounts registered under a shell company. But what caught my attention was a name listed as the primary corporate officer of that shell company: Arthur Vance.
Arthur Vance. Mike’s wealthy, prominent uncle—a man who sat on the board of directors for several major real estate firms in the city, and a man our mother had spent years praising as the epitome of success.
Mom had always fawned over Arthur Vance. Whenever she wanted to make me feel small, she would talk about how Mike’s family was “old money” and how Arthur had built an empire. She had practically forced Naya into the marriage, blinded by the prestige of the Vance name.
Did Arthur know what Mike was doing? Or worse—was he part of it?
The next morning, I printed out the financial disclosures and placed them on the kitchen table before Naya woke up. When she shuffled into the kitchen clutching a mug of chamomile tea, I pushed the papers toward her.
“What’s this?” she asked, squinting through her exhaustion.
“Look at the corporate officers for the company holding Mike’s hidden assets,” I said, pointing a finger at the highlighted name.
Naya’s eyes scanned the text. When she saw Arthur Vance’s name, her coffee mug slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the table and spilling warm brown liquid across the laminated wood.
“Arthur?” she whispered, horrified. “Uncle Arthur is a billionaire philanthropist. He... he donated fifty thousand dollars to our church last year! He gave us the down payment for our house!”
“Or rather, he funded it using a shell company that Mike was using to funnel embezzled money,” I corrected gently. “Naya, this isn't just a cheating husband. This is a white-collar operation. And if you don't act fast, the firm’s forensic accountants are going to claw back every asset associated with that shell company—including the house you and Mike bought.”
Naya stared at the papers, her hands trembling so violently she had to grip the edge of the table to steady herself. The last vestiges of her pride shattered completely. The illusion of her high-society marriage, the white dress, the gold balloons, the smug superiority she had lorded over me—it was all ash.
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“What do we do?” she asked, her voice small and terrified.
“We don't go to Mom,” I said firmly. “And we don't go to the police alone. We need a bulldog of a lawyer. And I know just who to call.”
