PART 2: THE ANATOMY OF A CRASH
The federal holding facility had no mahogany paneling or leather chairs like the ones Victor insisted on for his corporate executive suite.
Across the stainless-steel table, my husband of eleven years sat with his tie loosened and his posture completely ruined.
Olivia was housed in a separate wing, her court-appointed attorney already attempting to negotiate a plea deal in exchange for her full testimony against Victor.
“Claire, listen to me,” Victor pleaded, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the cold metallic surface. “Olivia manipulated me; she set the whole thing up with her brother’s logistics firm!”
I pulled a second document from my briefcase and smoothed it flat with the palm of my hand.
“This is the audited paper trail for the shell company, Victor,” I said calmly, watching his eyes dart across the figures. “You signed every single transfer personally over a fourteen-month period.”
He closed his eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching as the reality of his paper trail settled into his consciousness.
“You knew?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You knew for months and sat across the dinner table from me every night acting like everything was fine?”
“I was waiting for you to make a choice,” I replied softly. “And last night, you made it.”
Before he could answer, the door swung open, and two federal agents stepped inside to process his formal transfer to the detention center.
(Can Victor’s high-priced legal team find a way out? Click “Next Page” to read PART 3…)
