Chapter 2 - The Sound of Breaking Wood
The morning light over Pioneer Square was the color of wet cement. Heavy, low-hanging clouds smothered the city, casting a dreary gray filter across the brick facades and cobblestone streets. By 8:00 AM, I was already knee-deep in paperwork, having spent the entire night sorting through digital backups of our financial records, corporate tax filings, and joint investment portfolios.
Kent wasn't just a mid-level nonprofit executive; he was a co-trustee of the foundation’s capital campaign fund, meaning his signature was tied to multi-million-dollar donor accounts. And based on the digital paper trail I had quietly downloaded to my encrypted cloud drive over the past three months—anticipating a rainy day I never truly wanted to arrive—Kent had been playing fast and loose with donor allocations to fund a lifestyle that went far beyond his modest salary.
The bell above the workshop door chimed, cutting through the hum of my space heater.
I looked up from my laptop. Standing in the doorway, soaked through his trench coat and looking like a ghost dragged up from Puget Sound, was Marcus Vance.
Marcus was my lawyer, a sharp-eyed bulldog of a man who wore custom three-piece suits and drove a vintage Aston Martin that he parked illegally in the loading zone outside. He was also an old friend who had helped me set up my business partnership agreement ten years ago.
"You look like a woman who just discovered her favorite cello has a massive soundpost crack," Marcus said, stepping inside and shaking off his umbrella. He pulled up a stool opposite my workbench, tossing a thick manila folder onto the wood. "And judging by the encrypted email you sent me at 3:15 AM with the restaurant security footage attached, I'd say the understatement of the decade."
"Sit down, Marcus," I said, sliding my laptop toward him. "Forget the restaurant for a second. Look at page four of the corporate allocation logs from last quarter."
Marcus adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, leaning in. His eyebrows arched higher with every second his eyes scanned the data. "Wait. Is this... is this foundation money being funneled into a private shell LLC?"
"Look at the registration name of the LLC," I replied calmly, resting my chin on my hand. "It's called Monroe Strategic Holdings. Registered six months ago in Delaware. The mailing address is a UPS store three blocks from Lacy Monroe's apartment building."
Marcus let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Good grief, Sylvia. Your husband isn't just cheating on you; he's embezzling foundation funds to finance his mistress's high-end lifestyle. This isn't just divorce territory anymore. This is federal wire fraud and embezzlement territory."
"Kent thinks he's the smartest man in any room he walks into," I said, my voice steady. "He thinks because he smiles nicely at wealthy old widows and talks about arts education, nobody will ever look beneath the hood. But he made one fatal mistake."
"What's that?"
"He underestimated how quiet a woman is when she's paying attention."
Before Marcus could reply, my workshop phone—the landline connected to my business front—started ringing insistently. It wasn't my cell. It was the landline, a number only a select few people, including Kent's office and our landlord, possessed.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the phone. "Expecting a fan?"
"No," I said, standing up and walking over to the wall-mounted receiver. I pressed the speakerphone button. "Speak."
"Sylvia!" Kent’s voice blasted through the speaker, sounding ragged, frantic, and entirely unhinged. "Sylvia, thank God. Please, you have to come back to the house. The foundation board president just called me. Someone—some anonymous tipster—sent copies of our joint credit card statements and the LLC incorporation papers to the executive committee. They're demanding an emergency audit by noon today! My career is over, Sylvia! Everything I've built is gone!"
I looked at Marcus. Marcus was grinning like a cat that had just cornered a very plump mouse, silently mouthing: A little early Christmas present.
"That's terrible, Kent," I said into the speaker, my voice dripping with icy sweetness. "Have you tried blaming the freight train? Or perhaps you can tell the board it was just an inside joke from a donor tour."
A choking sound came from the other end of the line.
"Sylvia, stop it! This isn't a joke! If the board fires me for financial misconduct, I won't just lose my job—they'll press criminal charges. You have access to the secondary cloud backups. You can tell them it was an administrative error, that we were restructuring personal assets—"
"I told you last night, Kent," I interrupted, my tone hardening into absolute steel. "See you in court. And by the way, make sure you pack your bags before you leave the townhouse. The locks are being changed at noon."
I slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, cutting off his desperate screams.
May you like
Marcus stood up, buttoning his jacket. "Well, Sylvia. It looks like we have a very busy morning ahead of us. Shall I draft the emergency asset freeze petition for the family court judge?"
"Draft it," I said, walking back to my workbench and picking up the delicate brush to apply a coat of amber shellac to the cello neck in front of me. "And make sure it includes every single bank account, car, and asset he tried to hide behind Lacy Monroe's name."
