Chapter 8
The devices changed the investigation again.
They weren't sophisticated enough to belong to some intelligence agency.
But they didn't need to be.
Someone had placed small Wi-Fi-enabled microphones in three rooms of my home.
My office.
The living room.
The kitchen.
The places where Rachel and I discussed money.
The places where my parents talked.
The places where I took business calls.
Detective Harris asked the obvious question.
“Who had access to the house?”
“Rachel. Me. My parents recently.”
“Contractors?”
“A cleaning service twice a month.”
“Friends?”
“Sometimes.”
“Eric Dalton?”
I thought about it.
“Not that I knew of until yesterday.”
Harris looked toward the hallway.
“Any security cameras?”
“Doorbell camera.”
“Check the history.”
I opened the app.
Several days were missing.
Not unavailable.
Deleted.
My account permissions showed Rachel had administrative access.
Harris sighed.
“Of course.”
But one cloud backup remained.
The doorbell provider retained motion thumbnails longer than video clips.
We scrolled.
Delivery drivers.
Neighbors.
Rachel.
My parents arriving two weeks earlier.
Then, nine days before my business trip, a man approached carrying a black tool bag.
I enlarged the image.
Eric.
He stood at our front door.
Rachel opened it.
They hugged.
Not romantically.
But familiarly.
He entered.
He stayed for forty-eight minutes.
Rachel had never mentioned him.
Three days later, he came again.
This time she wasn't home.
At least, I didn't think she was.
The door opened anyway.
He had a key.
My stomach dropped.
“Rachel gave him a key.”
Harris wrote it down.
I continued scrolling.
Eric visited four times in two weeks.
Always when I was at work.
On the final visit, he carried something small in his hand.
Possibly one of the devices.
Daniel looked disgusted.
“This guy was listening to you in your own house.”
I couldn't speak.
Every argument.
Every private conversation.
Every moment with my parents.
Had someone been listening?
The forensic team took the devices.
That night, Harris called.
“One device connected to an online account registered with an encrypted email address.”
“Can you trace it?”
“We're working on it.”
“Was it Eric?”
“We don't know yet.”
I hated that answer.
The next morning, Rachel's attorney contacted Evelyn.
Rachel wanted to cooperate fully.
She claimed she didn't know about the recording devices.
For the first time, I believed her.
Not because I trusted her.
Because secretly recording me didn't seem necessary for her plan.
She already knew my schedule.
She already knew our finances.
Someone else had wanted information.
Possibly Eric.
Possibly Cole.
Possibly both.
Rachel agreed to meet investigators again.
I wasn't supposed to attend.
That was probably good.
I spent the day with my parents at the cabin.
Mom cooked eggs even though none of us were hungry.
Dad kept walking to the window whenever a car passed.
Seeing him nervous made me furious in a way I couldn't explain.
My father had spent thirty-five years working maintenance at a manufacturing plant.
He had raised me to solve problems, not panic over them.
Now because of my marriage, he was checking windows like someone might be coming.
“I should never have brought this into your lives,” I said.
Dad turned.
“You didn't.”
“I brought Rachel into the family.”
Mom immediately said, “Michael.”
“What?”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Take responsibility for another adult's choices.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You two are hiding in a cabin because my wife forged documents.”
“Yes,” Mom said. “Because she made choices.”
I looked down.
She sat beside me.
“You loved her.”
“I still don't know what I feel.”
“You don't have to.”
“I should hate her.”
Mom's face softened.
“No. You should feel whatever you feel.”
That almost broke me.
I had been so busy reacting to crises that I hadn't allowed myself to grieve.
The marriage.
The trust.
The future I thought we had.
Mom put her hand over mine.
“I loved Rachel too.”
I looked at her.
She smiled sadly.
“She was my daughter-in-law for eight years. Do you think yesterday erased every Christmas? Every birthday?”
“No.”
“That is why this hurts.”
Dad stared out the window.
Then said quietly, “I still want her held accountable.”
Mom gave him a look.
“So do I.”
They both looked at me.
And somehow that helped.
Accountability wasn't hatred.
Love didn't require pretending harm hadn't happened.
My phone rang.
Evelyn.
“Rachel finished her interview.”
“And?”
“She provided information about Eric and Cole.”
“What information?”
“She found messages.”
“What kind?”
“Eric pressured her to complete the loan quickly. He also instructed her to remove anyone from the house who might interfere.”
I felt cold.
“My parents.”
“Yes.”
“So throwing them out was Eric's idea?”
“According to Rachel, he said no third parties could be present when the documents were finalized.”
I closed my eyes.
That didn't absolve her.
She still chose to humiliate them.
But it explained the timing.
Evelyn continued.
“There is more.”
I almost laughed.
“There always is.”
“Rachel says Eric knew details about conversations he shouldn't have known.”
“The microphones.”
“Possibly.”
“What details?”
“She and Vanessa had argued in your kitchen two weeks ago. Eric later referenced something Vanessa said during that argument.”
“Was Eric there?”
“No.”
My heart sped up.
“So he was listening.”
“It would appear possible.”
“Why?”
“Rachel thinks he wanted leverage.”
“Against her?”
“Against everyone.”
I stood.
“What kind of leverage?”
“Michael, do you take confidential calls from home?”
“Yes.”
“Work calls?”
“Yes.”
The meaning hit me.
I worked for a manufacturing technology company.
I had access to contract negotiations.
Pricing information.
Client details.
Nothing national-security level.
But definitely confidential.
“Did he record my work conversations?”
“We don't know.”
My mouth went dry.
I called my company's legal department immediately.
That conversation was humiliating.
Necessary.
But humiliating.
I explained a suspected unauthorized listening device had been found in my home office.
Within an hour, corporate security was involved.
I voluntarily turned over dates.
Meeting schedules.
Potentially exposed calls.
By sunset, my personal disaster had threatened my career.
Then corporate security called me back.
“Michael, we reviewed your remote meeting logs.”
I gripped the phone.
“Okay.”
“On at least three occasions, you discussed confidential pricing from your home office during the period the device may have been active.”
My stomach dropped.
“Is my job at risk?”
“We're not making employment decisions right now.”
Not comforting.
“We need to know whether any information was transmitted to competitors.”
“How would I know?”
“We're investigating.”
After the call, I sat alone on the cabin porch.
Dad came outside.
“You all right?”
“No.”
He sat beside me.
I told him.
He listened.
Then said, “One problem at a time.”
“What if I lose my job?”
“Then you'll find another.”
“What if the company sues me?”
“You didn't place the device.”
“What if—”
“Michael.”
I stopped.
Dad looked at me.
“You've spent your whole life believing you can prevent every bad outcome by thinking hard enough.”
I almost smiled.
“Sounds like me.”
“You can't.”
We sat quietly.
Then headlights appeared on the road.
Dad straightened.
A dark SUV stopped near the end of the driveway.
My heart jumped.
The vehicle remained there.
Engine running.
I stood.
“Inside.”
Dad didn't argue.
I called Harris.
The SUV started moving before deputies arrived.
But Dad had photographed the plate.
Of course he had.
Detective Harris called thirty minutes later.
“The plate belongs to a rental vehicle.”
“Who rented it?”
Silence.
“Harris?”
He answered carefully.
“Vanessa Clarke.”
I stared at the phone.
Vanessa.
The woman who claimed she wanted to help.
The woman who gave us the folder.
The woman who said Rachel had dragged her into everything.
I called Daniel.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived from Daniel's phone.
Need you to meet me.
An address followed.
I didn't recognize it.
May you like
Then another message.
Come alone.
