Chapter 9 - Stripping the Veneer
On Friday morning, while the court clerks were processing our emergency filings downtown, I did what any builder does when a structure is condemned: I started swinging.
The home on the cul-de-sac had become a monument to Colette’s deceit. Over the last two years, she had systematically replaced everything we had built together with sterile, high-end affectations funded by her secret siphon. The hand-crafted oak mantle I had carved for our fifth anniversary had been replaced by a faux-marble slab. The family photographs in the hallway had been swapped for pretentious, abstract prints selected by Spencer’s decorator.
Kaden and I put on work gloves, safety goggles, and heavy boots.
"Where do we start?" Kaden asked, holding a fifteen-inch crowbar.
"The mantle," I replied. "It’s hollow inside. She put it in last July."
We wedged the flat edge of the bar behind the synthetic marble and pulled. With a loud, dry screech of tearing drywall, the slab tore away from the studs, hitting the drop cloth with a heavy, hollow thud.
Behind the hollow framing, tucked between two two-by-fours where the old chimney flue used to run, sat a fireproof lockbox wrapped in an old blue shop towel.
Kaden froze, the crowbar suspended in midair. "Dad... what is that?"
"That isn't mine," I said, setting my hammer down.
The box had a digital keypad, but someone had sloppily scratched a four-digit number into the underside of the handle with a drywall screw: *1024*. Kaden’s birthday. Colette’s vanity always made her predictable.
I punched in the code. The latch popped open with a heavy, metallic click.
Inside wasn't jewelry. It wasn't cash.
It was three black thumb drives, a stack of handwritten journals dating back eighteen months, and a manila folder marked: *Oakridge Commercial Park — Bids & Kickbacks.*
I pulled out the first journal, flipping open the pages. The handwriting was unmistakably Colette’s, but the notes weren't romantic diary entries about her affair with Spencer Campbell. They were detailed, dated notes on Spencer’s corporate finances: bank account numbers, dates of offshore transfers, and personal memos regarding county commissioners who had taken cash payments to rezone greenbelt land for Spencer’s luxury development.
"She wasn't just his lover," I muttered, the puzzle pieces clicking together in a terrifying new alignment. "She was his insurance policy."
Kaden looked over my shoulder, his face pale. "She kept evidence on him?"
"Colette never trusts anyone, Kaden," I said, cold dread washing over my skin. "She was setting Spencer up just like she was setting me up. If he tried to discard her after the divorce, she was going to burn his company down and take half his real estate empire with her."
Before Kaden could answer, the sharp, shrill ring of my cell phone echoed through the gutted living room. It was Frank Reyes from First National.
"Conrad," Frank said, his voice trembling with an urgency I had never heard in him before. "You need to get down to your workshop on 4th Street right now."
"Why? What’s going on, Frank?"
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"Spencer’s logistics company just showed up with three flatbeds and a repossession crew," Frank whispered. "They’re claiming the heavy framing machinery belongs to Horizon Capital. And Conrad... they brought armed private security."
***
