“Some of it.” He sat, leaning forward. “The foundation was legitimate once, but new board members came in about three years ago and corrupted it. Michael got involved thinking it was a good networking opportunity. He had no idea about the money laundering.”
“The FBI doesn’t seem to believe that.”
Steven ran a hand through his hair.
“That’s why I’m here. The firm is prepared to provide Michael with the best defense attorneys, but we need to protect the firm’s reputation, too. If Michael fights the charges publicly, it damages all of us. We’re hoping he’ll consider a plea agreement.”
“You want him to plead guilty to something he didn’t do.”
“I want him to survive this with minimal damage. A plea deal means less prison time, and the firm can distance itself from the scandal.” Steven’s eyes were calculating. “We’re prepared to support you financially during this difficult time—help with legal fees, living expenses—but we need your cooperation in convincing Michael that fighting is futile.”
There it was.
The bribe.
They wanted Michael silent—compliant, willing to take the fall for something bigger.
“I think you should leave, Steven.”
His expression hardened.
“Mackenzie, don’t be foolish. Michael’s career is over either way. At least this way he gets out in five years instead of twenty, and you don’t lose everything trying to defend him.”
“Get out of my house.”
After he left, I stood at the window watching his car disappear.
Everyone wanted something from me.
The FBI wanted testimony.
The mysterious lawyer wanted information.
Michael’s own firm wanted him silenced.
And I still didn’t know who had sent those threatening text messages.
My phone buzzed.
Another unknown number, this time with a photo attachment.
I opened it with dread.
The image showed me standing at my kitchen window—this morning—coffee mug in hand, taken from somewhere across the street.
The message below read:
You have something that doesn’t belong to you. Return Dale’s documents or your son pays the price. You have 24 hours.
My blood went cold.
Someone had been watching me all morning. Had seen me go to the basement. Knew about the envelope.
But how?
Had they been in my house before searching? Had they planted cameras?
I looked around my kitchen with new eyes, searching for anything out of place.
The smoke detector looked newer than I remembered.
The clock radio on the counter—had that always been there?
I couldn’t stay here.
I needed help.
But who could I trust?
Not the FBI who thought I was guilty.
Not the lawyers circling like vultures.
Not Michael’s firm willing to sacrifice him.
But there was someone.
Dorothy Sinclair—my neighbor and friend for thirty-five years.
A retired paralegal who knew the legal system inside and out.
If anyone could help me understand what I’d found, it was Dorothy.
I grabbed my purse and Dale’s letter, shoving the documents inside.
As I reached for the front door, my phone rang again.
Vivien this time.
“Mackenzie, don’t talk to anyone.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “They’ve gotten to Michael. He’s going to tell them you knew everything—that you were part of it from the start. You need to run.”
“What?” My throat tightened. “Why would he say that?”
“Because they threatened to put me away for life unless he cooperates. He’s protecting me by sacrificing you. I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this.”
The line went dead.
I stood frozen in my hallway, my mind reeling.
My own son was going to claim I was guilty.
After everything—after I discovered Dale’s secret, trying to protect him—
Outside, a car door slammed.
Through the window, I saw Agent Dos Santo and three other FBI agents walking toward my house, moving fast. One carried papers—probably the search warrant she’d mentioned.
I had seconds to decide.
Stay and face arrest based on Michael’s false testimony, or run—which would make me look even more guilty.
I looked at my purse, heavy with Dale’s documents.
The evidence that could prove the foundation’s corruption went back years—long before Michael’s involvement.
Evidence that could save my son, if I could figure out how to use it.
The doorbell rang, followed by heavy pounding.
“Mrs. Whitmore! FBI! We have a warrant!”
I went to my back door—the one leading to the garden. Beyond the fence was an alley, and beyond that, Dorothy’s house.
I could make it if I moved fast.
But running meant becoming a fugitive.
It meant confirming every suspicion Agent Dos Santo had about me.
The pounding grew louder.
“Mrs. Whitmore! Open this door or we’re coming in!”
I made my choice.
I grabbed my purse and went out the back door, moving as quickly as my sixty-three-year-old legs would carry me—toward the fence, toward Dorothy’s house, toward whatever came next.
Behind me, I heard my front door crash open.
I made it over the fence with less grace than I’d hoped, landing hard on Dorothy’s side and nearly twisting my ankle.
Her garden shed blocked the view from my house, giving me precious seconds. I could hear shouting behind me—Agent Dos Santo’s voice calling my name, other agents spreading through my property.
Dorothy’s back door opened before I reached it.
She stood there in her bathrobe, eyes wide with alarm.
“Mackenzie, what on earth—?”
“I need help. Please. The FBI is at my house.”
She pulled me inside without hesitation, locking the door behind us.
“Kitchen, quickly.”
Dorothy’s kitchen faced the front street, away from my property. She peeked through the curtains while I tried to catch my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“There are five agents going through your house,” she reported. “Two more searching the yard.”
She turned toward me, voice low.
“Mackenzie, what’s happened?”
I told her everything in a rushed whisper—the necklace, the fraud investigation, Michael and Vivien’s arrests, Dale’s letter.
Dorothy listened with the focused attention of her paralegal years, asking no questions until I finished.
“Let me see the documents,” she said.
I pulled them from my purse with shaking hands.
Dorothy read Dale’s letter twice, then examined the financial records, her expression growing more troubled with each page.
“This is bigger than you realize,” she finally said. “These bank statements show wire transfers from the school district to offshore accounts, then back into what became the Riverside Foundation seed money. Your husband documented a criminal conspiracy that’s been operating for over a decade.”
“Can it help Michael?”
“Maybe. But Mackenzie… you running makes you look guilty. They’ll issue a warrant for your arrest now.”
“Vivien called. She said Michael is going to testify that I was involved from the beginning. That I knew everything.”
Dorothy’s face hardened.
“Your own son would do that to protect Vivien.”
“They threatened her with life in prison unless he cooperates.”
“Or that’s what she told you.” Dorothy set down the documents. “Mackenzie, has it occurred to you that Vivien might be manipulating you? That this whole thing might be orchestrated?”
The thought had crossed my mind, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real.
“Why would she—”
Dorothy didn’t let me finish.
“She borrowed your necklace knowing it would be seized. She sent you those cryptic messages to confuse you. Now she’s claiming Michael will betray you, making you distrust your own son. What if she’s trying to isolate you—make you panic so you can’t think clearly?”
“But Michael called me. He told me to find Dale’s documents.”
“Did he?” Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “Or did someone cut off the call before he could finish what he was really trying to say?”
Dorothy pulled out her laptop.
“I’m going to do some research. You stay here—away from the windows.”
While Dorothy worked, I sat at her kitchen table trying to piece together the puzzle.
Vivien had always been charming but distant—more interested in Michael’s career trajectory than in family bonds. She came from money, old Pittsburgh money, the kind that opened doors.
Why would she need to be involved in fraud?
Unless the money wasn’t old at all—unless her wealthy background was as false as the foundation.
“Mackenzie, look at this.”
Dorothy turned her laptop screen toward me.
She’d pulled up a news article from six years ago—before Michael had even met Vivien.
Woman questioned in Miami investment scheme.
“That’s Vivien’s maiden name,” Dorothy said. “Vivien Hartman. She was investigated for helping her father run a Ponzi scheme that bilked retirees out of millions. No charges were filed—insufficient evidence. But look at the father’s name.”
I leaned closer.
Gerald Hartman.
“Not Hartman,” I whispered, the sound dry in my throat. “Hartman. The school superintendent.”
“He used a different last name, but that’s him. I’m sure of it. Same face—just older in the photos I saw.”
Dorothy nodded grimly.
“Vivien isn’t just connected to the Riverside Foundation. She’s the daughter of the man who started the whole criminal enterprise, and she married your son to get access to Dale’s documents.”
The realization hit me like ice water.
“She knew Dale had evidence against her father. That’s why she married Michael. That’s why she’s been so interested in our family, our house. She’s been searching for those documents for five years.”
“And you just found them first.”
My phone buzzed.
Another text from the unknown number.
Time is running out, Mackenzie. We know where you are. Give us what we want or Dorothy pays too.
I showed Dorothy the message.
Her face paled, but her voice remained steady.
“We need to call the FBI.”
“They think I’m guilty. They’ll arrest me.”
“Then we need leverage. Something that proves you’re a victim, not a perpetrator.”
She thought for a moment.
“You said Vivien asked about your jewelry months ago, claiming it was for estate planning.”
“Yes. She seemed very interested in the sapphire necklace specifically.”
“Did you notice anything else unusual that day? Anything she did or said that seemed odd?”
I tried to remember.
“She used the bathroom. Was gone for maybe ten minutes. I thought it was strange at the time…”
My stomach dropped as the thought landed.
“She was planting something.”
“Cameras. Listening devices.” Dorothy stood up. “That’s how they’ve been watching you.”
Dorothy’s gaze sharpened.
“We need to find them. If we can prove your house was under surveillance, it supports your claim that you were being manipulated.”
“But the FBI is there right now,” I said, voice thin. “Which means they’ll find the devices too—eventually.”
“But we need to get ahead of this.” She grabbed her phone. “I’m calling my old boss, Martin Jang. He’s a defense attorney now—one of the best. If anyone can navigate this mess, he can.”
While Dorothy made the call, I looked out her front window.
My house was still surrounded by FBI vehicles. Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk, watching the spectacle.
I saw Mrs. Patterson from next door talking to a reporter.
My private nightmare was becoming public entertainment.
Dorothy finished her call.
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