Marisol Grant, a senior attorney with sharp, calculating eyes and a chronically tired face, didn’t interrupt once as she reviewed the files. When she finally finished, she took off her reading glasses and rubbed her temples, letting out a long, slow breath.
“Eli… this isn’t just a mistake. This is a massive, coordinated criminal scheme,” she said quietly, the fluorescent lights humming above us. “We can fight this. But once I file these motions, they will try to destroy your reputation all over again. Are you ready for a bloodbath?”
“I’ve been fighting for my life since the day they locked me in a cage,” I replied, a cold, dangerous calm settling over my shoulders. “Drop the sky on them.”
Within exactly fourteen days, the federal subpoenas went out, instantly freezing every liquid asset Linda and Trevor possessed.
That same afternoon, my phone violently buzzed against the cheap laminate table of my apartment. The caller ID flashed a number I hadn’t seen in three years.
I hit accept, pressing the phone to my ear while remaining perfectly silent.
“Eli, honey,” Linda cooed, her voice trembling with manufactured, sickly-sweet anxiety. “What is all this terrifying nonsense with lawyers and frozen accounts? We can sit down and talk about this like a family.”
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