"My son served me dog food at my own seventieth birthday dinner… then I canceled the cards and exposed his secret.

Two weeks after the phone call from the state correctional facility, the North Shore suburbs settled into the thick, lazy heat of mid-July. Morning sunlight poured through the pristine windows of Ernest’s newly renovated kitchen, glinting off the polished granite countertops and the gleaming stainless-steel appliances that Arthur had helped him select. Ernest stood by the sink, rinsing a bowl of fresh, crimson cherries he had picked up from the local farmers' market earlier that morning.

As he dried his hands on a clean linen towel, a sudden, sharp rap echoed from the front entryway.

Ernest paused, frowning slightly. Deliveries usually arrived at the side porch, and his neighbors—Arthur, Sarah, and the rest of the close-knit community they had built—always walked around back or called ahead. Walking through the bright, airy hallway, Ernest approached the heavy oak front door and looked through the brass peephole.

Standing on the porch was a figure that made his breath catch for a fraction of a second.

It wasn't Marcus. It was a woman with sharp, angular features, wearing an oversized trench coat that seemed entirely out of place in the summer heat. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, tight bun, and she clutched a battered leather briefcase to her chest like a shield. It was Clara—Marcus’s former executive assistant and the silent accomplice who had forged several of the fraudulent transfer documents before turning state's witness to secure a lighter sentence for herself.

Ernest unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the heavy door open, and stood in the threshold, blocking the entrance completely. He did not invite her in. He simply crossed his arms and looked down at her with cool, impenetrable detachment.

"Mr. Vance," Clara breathed, her voice trembling slightly as she adjusted her glasses. Her eyes darted nervously around the manicured front yard before locking back onto his face. "I... I didn't think you'd be home. I was told you traveled often now."

"I go where I please, when I please," Ernest replied, his voice level and devoid of warmth. "And right now, I am standing in my own doorway, looking at a trespasser. How did you find this address, Clara? Court records regarding my personal residence were sealed under protective order last year."

"I didn't use court records," Clara said quickly, holding up a trembling hand as if to ward off a blow. "I... I kept a copy of the original property title from before Marcus transferred the deed into his shell corporation. Mr. Vance, please, you have to listen to me. I’m not here to ask for money. I’m here because of what Marcus didn't tell you before he was convicted."

Ernest’s eyes narrowed, though his posture remained completely relaxed. "Marcus told me plenty. Most of it was lies, and the rest of it was whining. What could your disgraced former employer possibly have left to say that would interest me?"

"It’s not about Marcus," Clara whispered, stepping half an inch closer before checking over her shoulder once more, as if invisible eyes were watching them from the quiet suburban street. "It’s about what he did with the final five million dollars he drained from your primary corporate account forty-eight hours before your seventieth birthday. He didn't spend it on the shell company. And he didn't lose it in the market."