Chapter 8
The morning sun broke over the suburban horizon, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on the charred skeletal remains of the Gable house. Yellow police tape fluttered lazily in the morning breeze, but the neighborhood was eerily quiet. Most residents had retreated behind drawn blinds, unsettled by the violence of the fire and the lingering presence of police cruisers parked at the curb.
Elena stood on her front porch, holding a steaming mug of black coffee that she hadn't touched. Her eyes were bloodshot from a sleepless night spent replaying every conversation, every legal loophole, and every secret buried in the ledger books now resting at the bottom of Lake Michigan—or wherever Martha’s crew had taken them.
A car door slammed down the street. Elena looked up to see Detective Miller walking briskly up her driveway, his expression grim and determined. He wasn't alone; two federal marshals in dark windbreakers flanked him, carrying heavy metallic cases and serious expressions.
Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs. She set her coffee mug down on the railing with a sharp clink and stepped down to meet them before they could reach her door.
"Morning, Detective," Elena said, keeping her voice carefully modulated, though her hands trembled slightly at her sides. "Early start for a house fire investigation."
Miller stopped at the foot of her steps, his sharp eyes pinning her in place. "We bypassed local jurisdiction, Ms. Vance. Federal Judge Harper signed a comprehensive search and seizure warrant for both properties early this morning. We have reason to believe crucial evidence regarding interstate financial fraud and corporate racketeering was housed in that building."
Elena swallowed hard, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. "I’m an independent consultant, Detective. My home is a residence, not a corporate office."
"Your father was the chief financial officer of Gable Industries for twenty years," Miller countered smoothly, stepping closer. "His personal estate records were routinely stored in the study next door. And since you’ve been seen spending an inordinate amount of time with Mrs. Gable both before and during the fire, we’re expanding our search to include your premises."
Before Elena could formulate a response, the front door of Martha’s house swung open. Martha stood on the threshold, wearing a dark green turtleneck and black trousers, her posture impeccable.
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"Good morning, gentlemen," Martha called out, her voice carrying clearly across the lawn. She walked down her steps with slow, measured grace. "You won't find any financial records in Ms. Vance’s home, Detective. Nor will you find them in the ruins of my study."
Miller turned his glare toward Martha, his patience wearing razor-thin. "We’ll be the judge of that, Mrs. Gable. Step aside."
