Chapter 4 - The Hidden Trail
The morning sun cast long, amber shadows across the hospital floor. By 8:00 AM, Marcus arrived carrying a steaming cup of black coffee and a thick manila folder.
“You look like hell, David,” Marcus said, handing me the coffee.
“Thanks, I feel worse,” I replied, taking a grateful sip. “Did your investigators find anything?”
Marcus pulled up a chair and opened the folder, spreading out several printed reports, bank statements, and satellite maps.
“A lot more than the police have, I’ll wager,” Marcus said grimly. “We hacked—legally accessed, through corporate compliance channels—the smart-home hub data from Sarah’s house. Her security system wasn't just a doorbell camera; it recorded internal motion logs, smart lock activations, and Wi-Fi device connections.”
I leaned in closer. “What did it show?”
“It showed that on Thursday night, two days before Ethan called you, an unknown device connected to Sarah’s home Wi-Fi network. It didn’t belong to her phone, her tablet, or any known neighbor. It belonged to a burner device registered under a shell corporation linked to offshore accounts.”
“Offshore accounts?” I repeated, frowning. “Sarah was a local art teacher and stay-at-home mom. What would she have to do with offshore accounts?”
“That’s the kicker,” Marcus said, sliding a financial ledger across the table. “About three years ago—right around the time you and Sarah separated—a series of wire transfers totaling nearly two million dollars were funneled through a shell company into a private savings account in the Cayman Islands. The primary account holder? Sarah Miller.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Two million dollars? Where on earth would Sarah get two million dollars?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus admitted. “Unless someone was paying her off. Or unless she was hiding something massive from you during your marriage.”
Before I could process that staggering revelation, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was an unknown number with a local area code.
I hesitated for a second before pressing accept.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Miller?” a rough, raspy voice replied. “If you ever want to see your ex-wife alive again, stop digging into her bank accounts. Drop the investigation, and tell the police you’re moving away.”
“Who is this?” I barked, standing up so abruptly my chair clattered to the floor. “Put Sarah on the phone!”
“There’s no Sarah right now,” the voice snarled. “She broke the rules. And if you don’t stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, your kids won’t just lose their mother—they’ll lose their father, too.”
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Click.
The line went dead.
