Chapter 6 - The Truth Behind the Scars
Agent Miller stepped into the foyer, holding out the leather portfolio toward Daniel.
“Good morning, Mr. Sterling, Mrs. Sterling,” Miller greeted us briskly. “I apologize for dropping by unannounced, but the Department of Justice needed your final digital signature on the asset forfeiture manifests before the 9:00 AM filing deadline.”
“Come on in, Agent Miller,” I said, walking over to the entryway and gesturing toward the dining table. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ll pass on the coffee, thank you, ma’am,” Miller said, sitting down and unzipping the portfolio. He looked at me with an expression of profound professional respect. “I have to tell you, in my twenty-two years with federal financial crimes, I have never seen a forensic audit packet as immaculate as the one you compiled. You didn't just give us a lead; you handed us an airtight, prosecution-ready indictment on a silver platter.”
“My father taught me how to read balance sheets before I could read storybooks,” I replied simply, signing my name across the designated signature lines. “And my eight years as a corporate litigator taught me where greedy people try to hide their tracks when they run out of money.”
Miller nodded, slipping the signed papers back into the portfolio. “Speaking of which... I wanted to ask you something off the record. The media has been hounding our press office about the night of the lodge fire. The official report from two years ago listed it as an accidental electrical failure. But based on the hard drive logs, it was clearly arson.”
I looked down at my arm, running my fingers lightly over the pale, textured skin.
“It was arson,” I said, my voice steady and detached from the memory. “Lorraine knew the state auditors were arriving on Monday morning to inspect the lodge’s inventory logs. The missing four million dollars from the charity trust funds would have been discovered immediately. So they decided to burn the entire building down, assuming the fire would destroy the paper records and kill whoever was inside.”
Miller’s jaw tightened. “They locked the exit doors from the outside, didn't they?”
“They did,” I said, remembering the thick iron deadbolts that had jammed when I tried to force the service exit open while smoke filled the corridors. “They thought I was trapped in the west wing. They didn't count on me finding the old maintenance ladder in the attic, or managing to break through the reinforced glass window before the roof collapsed.”
“And you survived with those injuries just to make sure they paid for it,” Miller murmured, shaking his head in quiet disbelief.
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“I survived because I had too much unfinished business,” I corrected him, looking up with a fierce, unwavering light in my eyes. “People who inflict pain on others because they think they’re above the law deserve to learn what happens when gravity finally catches up.”
Miller stood up, buttoning his suit jacket and offering a crisp, respectful nod. “Well, Mrs. Sterling, your business with them is officially concluded. The federal courts will handle the rest. Have a wonderful honeymoon—whenever you decide to take one.”
