I drove home with both hands on the wheel. The streetlights smeared past in yellow streaks. My jaw ached. I'd been clenching it since I left Gloria's house.
Nathan weaponizing a pregnancy he never confirmed. Gloria treating my condo like an inheritance already owed. The way they'd cornered me in that kitchen, voices warm, hands gentle, like they were doing me a favor.
I parked in the garage. I didn't sit in the car this time. I went straight upstairs.
Inside, I dropped my bag on the counter and opened my laptop. The screen lit my face in the dark apartment. I pulled up my contacts.
Victor Solis. Building inspector. We'd worked together on three projects. He owed me a favor from the Fremont job when I caught a framing error that would've cost him his license.
I typed fast.
*Victor — Need a consult on a residential property issue. Structural concern. Can you come by tomorrow morning, 9:45? Will explain in person. — Delaney*
Sent.
Then I opened a new message.
Margaret Huang. Property litigation attorney. Sharp as glass. We'd met at a zoning hearing two years ago and stayed in loose touch. She'd told me once, over coffee, that she loved cases where the other side thought they'd already won.
*Margaret — I need representation on a property matter. Time-sensitive. Civil and possibly criminal elements. Are you available for a consultation this week? — Delaney Webb*
Sent.
I closed the laptop. My hands were steady. That surprised me. I thought they'd shake.
They didn't.
---
The next seven days I moved like I was working a project on deadline. Methodical. Documented. No wasted motion.
I photographed the destroyed office again, this time with a timestamp app. I retrieved the condo's original deed from the safe deposit box at the bank. I printed the mortgage agreement. I pulled every receipt I could find related to the renovation — not that Nathan had kept many. He wasn't a receipt person.
Then I opened our shared financial accounts.
Nathan had never bothered to secure them. He used the same password for everything: his mother's birthday, backwards. I'd watched him type it a hundred times.
I logged in.
The checking account showed the usual: his paycheck deposits, my paycheck deposits, the automatic payments for utilities and his car insurance. Nothing strange.
Then I opened the transaction history and filtered by outgoing transfers.
There.
Seven thousand dollars. Moved in increments over six weeks. $1,200. $800. $1,500. $900. The amounts were irregular enough to avoid a pattern if you weren't looking. But I was looking.
The transfers went to an account I didn't recognize. Not Nathan's personal account. Not mine.
I copied the account number and ran it through a reverse lookup tool I'd used once for a client who was trying to track down a contractor who'd ghosted him.
The account belonged to Gloria Elliott.
I sat back. My chest felt tight, but my hands stayed on the keyboard.
Nathan had taken the money from our joint account and funneled it to his mother. Why?
I kept digging.
Gloria's account showed the same amounts, arriving on the same dates. Then, within days, each amount was transferred again. Smaller chunks this time. Venmo. Zelle. PayPal.
All to the same recipient.
Capri Medina.
I clicked through the Venmo transactions. Most had captions.
*For the Prada bag 💕*
*Spa day!! You're the best*
*Palm Springs here we come 🌴*
I stared at the screen.
Nathan had stolen seven thousand dollars from our joint account — money I'd contributed half of — routed it through his widowed mother's retirement fund to make it look clean, and used it to bankroll Capri's lifestyle. Designer bags. Spa treatments. A weekend trip.
Gloria didn't know. She couldn't have. She was too careful with money, too proud of what she'd saved. Nathan had taken it without asking, the same way he'd taken my office without asking, the same way he'd decided I was pregnant without asking.
He helped himself. That's what he did.
I printed every transaction. I saved PDFs to three separate cloud accounts. I saved screenshots to an external hard drive. I labeled everything by date and amount.
Then I called Margaret Huang.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Delaney. I got your email. Tell me what's happening."
I told her. All of it. The gutted office. The fake pregnancy assumption. The dinner ambush. The money trail.
She was quiet for a long time.
"You have all the records?"
"Everything."
"Good. Don't tell him you know. Not yet. Let him think he's won."
"I already did."
She laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "You're going to be fine, Delaney. Better than fine. Let me draft something. I'll have it ready by tomorrow."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you see him sign."
I hung up.
Outside, the rain started again. I stood at the window and watched the water streak the glass.
Nathan thought he'd locked me in. He thought the baby — the one that didn't exist — was the key.
He had no idea I'd already drawn the plans. He had no idea the walls were coming down.
And he had no idea I was the one holding the hammer.
