Chapter 6 - The Forensic Audit
Darren stepped forward, his fists clenched. "You think you're clever, Claire? You think a fancy suit changes anything? I have the LLC! I have the bank accounts! You're still just a broke little waitress who got kicked out of her own house!"
Claire didn't flinch. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a leather-bound folio.
"Darren," she said calmly, opening the folder. "Let’s discuss your bank accounts."
She turned the first page toward him.
"At 7:45 this morning, I served a federal financial preservation order on First Commercial Bank. The checking account holding the $650,000 you stole? Frozen. The remaining $350,000 you routed into your crypto exchange? Frozen by the compliance division under suspicion of money laundering."
Darren’s breath hitched. "That's... that's impossible. Crypto is decentralized!"
Claire offered a faint, pitying smile. "The blockchain is an immutable public ledger, Darren. You used your own driver’s license to complete the Know Your Customer verification on a United States-regulated exchange. Every single transfer you made, from the first hundred-dollar test transaction to the final split, has been documented, mapped, and handed over to the Special Investigations Unit of the Internal Revenue Service."
Gloria rushed down the porch stairs, her slippers soaking up the slush. "Claire, listen to me! This is a family matter! We can talk about this! Your father was sick, he wasn't thinking clearly—we were just trying to protect the assets from nursing home liens!"
"Protect the assets?" Claire turned her gaze upon her stepmother. The intensity in her eyes made Gloria take an involuntary step backward. "You substituted his blood thinners with acetaminophen. The doctor’s toxicology report confirms it. You left him in an unheated room while you spent thirty thousand dollars on diamond necklaces."
"I... I am his legal wife!" Gloria stammered, her voice cracking.
"Not for long," Marcus Vance intervened. "At 8:30 AM, Arthur Vance signed petition papers for an immediate annulment on the grounds of fraud, spousal abandonment, and intentional infliction of bodily harm. Furthermore, Claire Vance has been granted an emergency order of protection. You are prohibited from coming within five hundred yards of Arthur Vance, his property, or his accounts."
"This is Arthur’s house!" Gloria shouted, pointing at the two-story brick colonial behind her. "He bought it for me!"
"He bought this house twelve years before he ever had the misfortune of meeting you," Claire said coldly. "And under paragraph twelve of the court order, you and Darren have exactly sixty minutes to collect your personal clothing and vacate the premises."
Darren’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "Sixty minutes?! You're kicking us out?! In the snow?!"
"Darren," Claire said, tilting her head slightly, her voice echoing the exact words he had spat at her the previous night. "Take him somewhere else. A shelter. A motel. A park bench. I don't care."
Darren’s face flushed purple. "You can't do this! I live here! I'm an occupant! You have to give thirty days' notice under tenant law!"
"You surrendered tenant protections the moment you executed a fraudulent quitclaim deed using a falsified notary seal," Marcus replied, handing a copy of the emergency eviction writ to the deputy sheriff. "Under the State Chancery Court’s emergency receivership powers, this property is being sealed as a crime scene to preserve evidence. Deputy, carry out the order."
The deputy nodded, gesturing to his partner. "Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller. You have fifty-eight minutes remaining. Anything left in the house after that will be cataloged and placed in locked storage at your expense. If you refuse to comply, you will be taken into custody immediately."
The winch of the flatbed truck engaged with a high-pitched whine. The steel cable tightened around the front axle of Darren’s green Porsche, dragging it dragging across the icy driveway and pulling it up onto the metal ramp.
Darren watched his dream car, the symbol of his thirty-six hours as a wealthy playboy, being hauled away like a piece of abandoned scrap.
"My car..." he whimpered.
May you like
"It was never your car, Darren," Claire whispered. "It was my father's blood."
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