Chapter 7 - The Unwelcome VisitorStanding on the porch wasn't a federal marshal, a process server, or a reporter.
It was Savannah Blake.
Gone was the glamorous influencer draped in designer labels and dripping in diamonds. She wore an oversized hoodie, no makeup, dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes, and looked completely hollowed out. Her designer handbag was replaced by a cheap canvas tote bag.
“Sarah,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please. Don’t close the door.”
I gripped the edge of the wooden doorframe, my expression stone-cold. “How did you find me?”
“It’s not hard to trace public property filings,” Savannah said, taking a nervous step backward as if she expected me to strike her. She pulled a crumpled manila envelope from her bag. “Jonathan is locked up in the federal penitentiary in Marion. His mother had a massive stroke last month and is paralyzed in a nursing home. His legal team completely abandoned him. Every single account has been frozen by the government.”
“And why are you telling me this?” I asked, my voice devoid of any warmth. “You lived high off the stolen money for years, Savannah. You laughed right along with them while they tried to destroy my life.”
Tears spilled over her lower lashes, tracking down her cheeks. “Because I was stupid. I was young, I was naive, and I let him blind me with luxury. But... I kept something, Sarah.”
My eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Savannah reached into the manila envelope and pulled out a thick stack of printed legal documents and a second black USB drive—almost identical to the one Ethan had pulled out in court.
“Jonathan didn't just hide assets from you,” Savannah said frantically, clutching the envelope to her chest. “He hid millions in secret accounts overseas under dummy corporations designed to frame other business partners if things ever went sideways. And he kept a detailed journal documenting every single bribe, every lawyer he paid off, every threat he made against you.”
She held the package out toward me with trembling hands.
“If you hand this over to the federal prosecutors leading his ongoing RICO case, it will guarantee he never sees the light of day again. His parole hearings will be blocked for the next thirty years.”
I looked at the drive. Then I looked at Savannah’s desperate, tear-stained face.
The nightmare was supposed to be over. But Jonathan Reed was a cockroach who had spent a lifetime building bunkers to survive nuclear fallout. As long as he breathed, as long as there was a shred of hidden leverage left in the world, the threat would linger.
May you like
“Why give this to me?” I asked cautiously. “Why not go to the FBI yourself?”
“Because the FBI doesn't trust me. They think I'm an accomplice,” Savannah sobbed. “If you hand it over, as his primary victim and the mother of his children, they’ll listen. Please, Sarah. I just want this nightmare to end so I can start over.”
