Chapter 6 - THE MONEY HE COULD NOT FIND
Jason froze our joint checking account the following morning.
The bank called while I was making oatmeal for Lily.
A fraud alert had been filed against every recent transfer I made.
My debit card stopped working.
Our primary savings account showed a balance of fourteen dollars.
Jason had moved more than eighty thousand dollars into an account I could not see.
Rebecca filed an emergency financial motion within the hour.
“He wants you frightened,” she said.
“He wants me unable to pay rent.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
Months earlier, I had opened an account in my own name using money from freelance design work.
Every deposit was documented.
Every tax payment had been made.
I had enough to survive for six months.
Jason never noticed because he had never asked what I earned.
Rebecca smiled.
“You prepared well.”
“I prepared quietly.”
The financial pressure was not the only attack.
Anonymous complaints reached Lily’s day care, claiming I drank during the day.
A false report accused me of leaving her alone in a parked car.
Someone contacted my employer and alleged I had stolen confidential files.
Each accusation arrived separately.
Together, they formed a pattern.
Rebecca requested records connecting the reports to Jason’s family.
Then my manager called.
“Emily, I need to ask you something uncomfortable.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you use company equipment to store personal recordings?”
“No.”
“Did you access restricted client files?”
“No.”
“We received screenshots suggesting otherwise.”
My chest tightened.
“What screenshots?”
He forwarded them.
They showed my employee login beside documents I had never seen.
The images looked convincing.
Almost.
The date format was wrong.
Our internal system displayed dates as month, day, year.
The screenshots used day, month, year.
“They’re fabricated,” I said.
“We suspected that.”
“Why?”
“Because the employee number beside your name belongs to a man who retired two years ago.”
Relief moved through me.
My manager lowered his voice.
“Do you know anyone with enough technical skill to create these?”
“My husband.”
That afternoon, Rebecca’s digital-forensics expert traced the attempted access to my storage account.
The source had been concealed through a virtual private network.
But one failed login exposed a device identifier.
It belonged to Jason’s personal laptop.
Rebecca submitted the report to the court.
Martin Cole responded by claiming Jason’s device had been compromised.
At six that evening, police arrived at my apartment.
A neighbor had reported hearing a child screaming for hours.
Lily was sitting quietly on the rug, coloring a blue elephant.
The officers inspected every room.
They checked the refrigerator, smoke detectors, locks, and Lily’s sleeping area.
One officer apologized before leaving.
The other remained near the door.
“Mrs. Bennett, this is the third welfare complaint involving this address in two days.”
“I know.”
He looked down the hallway.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“A man was sitting in a car across the street when we arrived.”
My skin went cold.
“Did you speak to him?”
“He drove away.”
“What kind of car?”
“Black sedan.”
Jason drove a black sedan.
So did thousands of people in Chicago.
Then the officer handed me a photograph captured by the building’s security camera.
The driver was not Jason.
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It was Martin Cole’s private investigator.
And on the passenger seat beside him was a yellow stuffed rabbit wearing Diane’s bracelet.
