Chapter 6: The Locked Room
Patricia listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
"She found a key in his coat pocket."
"That's what she said."
"And she's never been inside the second bedroom."
"Never.
He keeps it locked."
"Claire." Patricia's voice shifted into something more deliberate.
"I need you to hear me carefully.
Whatever is in that room — it may or may not be relevant to your case.
But if there's any possibility that Greg has been using that address for financial activity he didn't disclose, then the contents of that space could matter.
A lot."
"What do I do?"
"Nothing directly.
You don't go there.
You don't encourage Kayla to go in without legal guidance." A pause.
"But if she chooses to look — and if she finds something — and if she decides to share it with you voluntarily — that's a different conversation."
"You're telling me to wait."
"I'm telling you not to interfere," she said.
"There's a difference."
I spent the rest of that evening trying not to think about it.
Leo had soccer practice, and I stood on the sideline in the early evening light watching him chase the ball across the grass, his cleats too big, his socks already falling down, completely absorbed in the game.
He hadn't mentioned Greg once since the party.
I didn't know if that was healthy or not.
I made a note to call his school counselor.
My phone buzzed at 8:47 that night.
Kayla.
A photo.
No message.
I opened it.
It was a room.
Small.
A desk, a filing cabinet, a laptop on a stand.
On the desk, a stack of folders.
On the wall above the desk, a corkboard covered in papers — printed pages, handwritten notes, what looked like a spreadsheet printout with numbers circled in red.
I zoomed in on the corkboard.
I could make out partial column headers on the spreadsheet.
Dates.
Dollar amounts.
A column that looked like it said *Disbursements.*
The folders on the desk had labels.
I could read two of them clearly.
One said *Holdings.*
The other said *Riverside.*
I called Patricia immediately.
"She went in," I said.
"What did she find?"
I described the photo.
The corkboard.
The folders.
The spreadsheet.
Patricia exhaled slowly.
"Riverside," she said.
"That's a property development project.
There were two Riverside-named LLCs filed in this county in the last eighteen months.
I flagged them when I was pulling his business records but I hadn't connected them to him yet."
"You think he's connected to them?"
"I think a locked room full of financial documents in an apartment he hid from a court-supervised asset disclosure is not a coincidence." A pause.
"Can she send you the original photo?
Full resolution, not a screenshot."
"I'll ask her."
"And Claire — ask her if she's willing to make a formal statement.
Not to me.
To a forensic accountant I work with.
Someone who can look at what's in that room and tell us what we're actually dealing with."
"She's twenty years old and she's scared."
"I know.
But she called you.
She went into that room.
She sent you the photo." Patricia paused.
"She's already made her choice.
She just needs to know someone will stand behind her when she makes the next one."
I texted Kayla.
*Can you send me the original photo?
Full resolution.
And — are you safe right now?*
Three minutes passed.
Then: *He just texted.
He's on his way back.*
Then: *I'm sending the photo now.*
Then: *There's something else.
Under the desk.
A box.
I only had time to open the top.*
I stared at the screen.
*What was in it?* I typed.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
*Passports,* she wrote.
*More than one.
Different names.*
My hand tightened around the phone.
*Get out of that room,* I typed.
*Lock it exactly the way you found it.
Act normal.
Do not let him know you went in.*
*Okay,* she wrote.
Then: *Claire.
I think I made a mistake.*
May you like
I wasn't sure if she meant moving in with Greg, or opening that door, or something else entirely.
Maybe all three.
