Chapter 5 - Uninvited GuestsThree men in sharp charcoal suits stepped into the foyer.
The holiday jazz music drifted awkwardly from the kitchen speakers, clashing violently with the heavy, electric tension in the air. The tallest man, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and carrying a leather briefcase, scanned the room before locking his eyes directly on Ryan.
“Ryan Miller?” the man asked, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
Ryan froze, his hand hovering mid-air. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here? This is private property!”
“My name is Agent Vance, federal marshal financial crimes division,” the man said, pulling a laminated badge from his breast pocket. “And these are local detectives. Mr. Miller, you are being served with a federal subpoena and an immediate warrant for arrest regarding wire fraud, identity theft, and grand larceny totaling over $1.2 million.”
The dining room erupted into absolute chaos.
Judith let out a shrill, piercing shriek that sounded remarkably like a smoke alarm, collapsing backward into her velvet chair and clutching her fake pearls. Uncle Bob dropped his bourbon glass, shattering it against the floorboards. Brittany covered her mouth with both glittery hands, her wine glass slipping from her fingers and staining her designer dress.
“This is a mistake!” Ryan shouted, his face turning a sickly, mottled gray. He backed away from the federal agents, his eyes darting frantically toward the back door. “Chloe! Tell them! Tell them this is a family dispute! Tell them you authorized those transfers!”
I stepped forward, holding my phone up so my father could still hear everything on the line.
“I didn't authorize a damn thing, Ryan,” I said softly, looking him dead in the eye. “Marcus Vance isn't just a federal investigator. He’s the forensic accountant I hired eight months ago to track every single penny you stole from my personal accounts to fund your apartment for Tiffany.”
Ryan stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the dining table. The remaining plates rattled violently.
“Tiffany?” Judith gasped, her maternal performance instantly shattering as she glared at her son. “Who the hell is Tiffany?”
“Shut up, Mom!” Ryan screamed, losing all remaining shreds of composure. He lunged toward me like a cornered animal, his hands clawing at the air. “You bitch! You planned this! You planned all of this!”
The federal marshals didn't hesitate. Within a second, Ryan was pinned face-down against Judith’s pristine white holiday table, right on top of the remnants of the green bean casserole.
May you like
Mushroom sauce smeared across his designer shirt. Fried onions stuck to his cheek.
As the cold steel cuffs clicked around his wrists, Ryan looked up at me with eyes full of pure, unadulterated terror.
