Chapter 4 - The Ultimatum
The call disconnected with a sharp click.
The silence in the kitchen returned, heavier and more suffocating than before. I stared at the phone, my mind racing. My mother—the woman who had raised me, who had baked cookies and told bedtime stories—was blackmailing me.
"She's bluffing," I muttered, though even to my own ears, it sounded like a desperate prayer. "What could she possibly have on my firm?"
Savannah walked past me, opening the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of ice-water. She took a slow sip before looking at me.
"Your firm, Miller & Associates Architecture, has been bidding on municipal contracts in San Diego for the last two years," Savannah said evenly. "And two months ago, your senior partner, Richard, diverted fifty thousand dollars in campaign contributions to secure the downtown civic center project. Who do you think signed off on the transfer using your digital signature while you were asleep?"
My blood ran cold. "How... how do you know that?"
"I told you, Christopher. I don't just keep notes; I audit my life," she replied, leaning against the counter. "Your mother found out about Richard’s illegal kickbacks through a letter sent to our old address in Sacramento. She’s been using it to blackmail Richard behind your back. She’s been bleeding your firm dry for months to pay off her underground card debts."
Everything I thought I knew about my life shattered into dust. My career, my marriage, my family—it was all built on a foundation of rot, deception, and my own staggering blindness.
"We need to go to the police," I said, reaching for my car keys.
"The police?" Savannah let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Christopher, wake up. Bernice has been planning this for years. She has paper trails connecting you to the kickbacks because Richard used your laptop. If we go to the police right now without proof of her extortion, you’re the one going to prison for federal fraud, and I’m a stress-induced casualty of the scandal."
"Then what do we do?" I pleaded, taking a step toward her. For the first time in our marriage, I wasn't the provider, the protector, or the man of the house. I was a helpless bystander looking to my wife to save us.
Savannah looked at me, her eyes unreadable. She walked over to the dining table, unlocked her laptop, and spun the screen toward me.
"We don't go to the police," she said softly. "We play her game. But this time, we change the rules."
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On the screen was a live feed of my mother’s bank accounts, tracking her every movement in real-time. She was currently sitting at a 24-hour diner three blocks away, meeting with a shady private investigator named Victor Vance—a man with a rap sheet longer than a CVS receipt.
"She thinks she's hunting us," Savannah whispered, a terrifyingly brilliant smile touching the corner of her swollen lips. "Let's see what happens when the hunter becomes the prey."
