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 24

Losing trust feels like a house you built yourself—every nail, every beam—then discovering termites have eaten it while you slept. And left eggs.

That’s what the forfeiture notice felt like.

Certified mail on Tuesday. I signed. Suspicion first, comfort later.

Evelyn already had it highlighted.

“Targeted,” she said. “Only the portion linked to the offshore account.”

“How long?”

“Weeks, maybe months,” she said. “Depends on trace, cooperation.”

I thought of Emma in a dorm, papers threatening her floorboards. Jaw tightened.

“We cooperate,” I said.

She slid the papers. Clean surrender of anything smelling of Trevor.

Replacement followed. Numbers brutal, spoken softly. Enough to cover two years of tuition.

“How much?” I asked.

“Two hundred and twelve thousand,” he said, roughly.

I didn’t react immediately. Emma’s safety came first.

“Fine,” I said.

Evelyn: “Vincent—”

“Fine,” I repeated. “Tell me where to move it.”