Chapter 5 - Handcuffs and Gravy
The red and blue lights illuminated the living room curtains in erratic, violent pulses. The front door burst open, and within seconds, four uniformed officers and two plainclothes federal agents flooded the trashed room.
"Nobody move!" the lead agent barked, his hand resting on his service weapon.
Ethan Cole stood with his hands in plain sight, perfectly composed despite his torn sleeve. "Good evening, Agent Miller. The subjects are on the floor. The evidentiary documents are on the coffee table."
"Ethan," Agent Miller nodded grimly, surveying the wreckage. "Looks like you had quite a reunion."
"Self-defense," Ethan said smoothly. "Grant Vance attempted to strike me with a crystal decanter when I confronted him regarding the missing escrow funds. I subdued him. His brother Dylan intervened, and I subdued him as well."
"He attacked us!" Grant screamed, scrambling onto his knees toward the officers, tears leaving clean streaks through the gravy on his cheeks. "Officer, arrest him! Look at my face! He broke into my mother’s house! He assaulted us!"
Agent Miller didn't even look at Grant's face. He looked at me. "Are you Nora Vance?"
"I am," I said clearly. I stepped forward and handed the agent a thumb drive from my pocket. "This contains three hundred hours of phone recordings, bank transaction logs, forged mortgage documents, and high-definition video of the entire encounter tonight, beginning thirty seconds before Mr. Cole entered the residence."
Grant stared at me as if I had shot him in the chest. "Three hundred hours? You... you bugged the house?"
"I bugged *my* house, Grant. The house you brought Vanessa to on Tuesday afternoons while I was supposedly at physical therapy," I replied, my voice chillingly even. "I also bugged your car. Every word you said to Dylan about laundering Vanessa's husband's trust funds through the dummy LLC is recorded, timestamped, and transcribed."
"Nora... no, please..." Grant wept, his hands trembling as an officer pushed him down onto his stomach and pulled his arms behind his back. The sharp, metallic click of handcuffs echoed through the room.
Dylan was dragged out from under the dining table, whimpering like a dog in the rain. He didn't even look at his brother. "It was Grant's idea! I have the text messages! I’ll testify against him! Just don't send me to federal prison!"
"Shut up, Dylan!" Grant screamed, thrashing against the carpet as he was hauled to his feet. "You spent half of it! You bought the Porsche!"
"Both of you, quiet," the arresting officer grunted, shoving Grant toward the front door.
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As Grant passed me, he stopped, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with desperate fury. "You planned this! You ruined my life! I gave you seven years!"
"You gave me seven years of lies, Grant," I whispered, leaning in close enough that he could smell my lavender perfume over the stench of his own sweat. "And tonight, I took my life back."
