Chapter 9 - The Final Desperate Play
Three days after the court hearing, the Key Biscayne investment property closing was officially cancelled by court order.
The buyer—Grant’s college roommate, David Vance—immediately pulled out of the deal when federal investigators contacted him regarding his involvement in an offshore money-laundering scheme. With his corporate accounts frozen, his mistress gone, his reputation in tatters, and a twelve-thousand-dollar court support order hanging over his head, Grant was officially bankrupt.
It was a rainy Thursday evening when my phone buzzed on the kitchen island.
I was standing by the stove, stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup while Owen and Lily drew pictures with crayons at the kitchen table. The house was warm, filled with the comforting smell of baking bread and the sound of children’s laughter—a atmosphere that had been completely absent for nine years.
I picked up the phone. It was an unknown prepaid number.
I pressed speaker. “Hello?”
“Maya...”
Grant’s voice sounded hollow, slurred, and exhausted. I could hear the distinct background noise of rain pouring against metal, along with the loud hum of an airport terminal.
“Grant,” I said calmly, nodding to Natalie, who was sitting at the dining table with her laptop. Natalie instantly began tracing the call location. “You are violating the restraining order.”
“I don't care about the restraining order anymore, Maya,” Grant said, letting out a dry, raspy laugh. “I’m sitting at LaGuardia. I bought a one-way ticket to Costa Rica. My flight leaves in two hours.”
I paused, setting my wooden spoon down. “Are you calling to say goodbye to your children?”
“I’m calling to tell you that you didn't win,” Grant spat, his tone suddenly turning sharp and venomous. “You think you took everything from me? You think you’re smart because you found the accounts? I emptied my private offshore safety deposit box three months ago, Maya. I have two million dollars in untraceable cryptocurrency sitting in a cold hardware wallet in my jacket pocket.”
He paused, waiting for me to gasp, waiting for me to cry out in anger that he was escaping with two million dollars.
“I’m going to live like a king in South America,” Grant bragged, his slurred speech betraying that he had been drinking heavily at an airport bar. “And you’re going to be stuck in that big, quiet house, raising three kids all by yourself, struggling to pay the utilities on whatever chump change you make consulting!”
I listened to him finish his pathetic tirade. I looked at Owen, who was carefully coloring a blue roof on a drawing of our house, completely unbothered by the quiet phone on the counter.
“Grant,” I said softly, my voice filled with genuine pity. “Did you really think I didn't check your private safe deposit box at First National Bank?”
The line went dead silent.
“What... what are you talking about?” Grant stammered, his confidence instantly collapsing.
“You opened safety deposit box number 412 in June,” I explained smoothly. “You kept your primary ledger and your hardware crypto key inside a black velvet pouch. I executed a civil search warrant on that box with federal marshals forty-eight hours ago.”
May you like
I took a slow sip of my water.
“The hardware wallet in your pocket right now, Grant... is a dummy drive I replaced it with. Your two million dollars was transferred into the court-supervised escrow trust for Owen, Lily, and the new baby yesterday morning.”
