A week after settling into my new home, the former owner called with an unsettling admission: he’d forgotten to switch off the living room camera.
Part 23
The call came from a Washington, D.C. area code. Normally, that detail wouldn’t matter—until it did.
I was in the workshop, late afternoon light turning sawdust into slow-moving glitter. Emma had left the day before for freshman orientation. The house felt too quiet without her—not empty, but quieter in the way a place loses a heartbeat.
I wiped my hands on a rag and answered.
“Mr. Carter?” a man said. Formal, clipped.
“Yes.”
“Special Agent Daniel Voss, Portland field office. Calling about the Morrison matter and the Lone Sharks investigation.”
My shoulders tightened.
“Go on,” I said.
“We’re finalizing asset forfeiture related to that gambling ring. You were listed as a victim, but secondary considerations exist regarding recovered funds.”
“Recovered funds,” I repeated.
“The offshore account?”
“Yes.”
I felt the air thin.
I hadn’t asked the balance before. Didn’t want the sweetness of stolen money. I’d pushed it into Emma’s trust, hoping the poison would turn clean.
Now a federal agent was calling about it.
“How much?” I asked.
“I can’t say on the phone,” Voss said. “The account links to laundering. Any traced funds may be seized.”
Seizure.
I closed my eyes, saw Emma choosing civil engineering, declaring herself. I tasted metal behind my teeth.
“What does this mean for her trust?” I asked.