Detective Ramirez's last words followed me all the way home.
Cambodia.
The name sounded strangely disconnected from everything that had happened in the previous forty-eight hours. My apartment. The copied key. Megan's lies. Dad's missing money. The forged credit application. None of it had seemed connected to an international escape route.
Yet now there was a name, a passport, and a destination.
Someone had planned farther ahead than we had realized.
Ramirez had arranged for us to return to the station the following morning. Until then, he told me not to contact Megan, Michael, Arthur Bell, or anyone connected to the investigation.
That left me with the hardest instruction of all.
Wait.
I drove home with Dad in the passenger seat.
He barely spoke.
Neither did I.
The city moved around us as usual. Traffic lights changed. People crossed streets. Restaurants filled with customers. A bus pulled away from a stop.
Everything looked ordinary.
I couldn't understand how ordinary the world could appear while my family was falling apart inside it.
When we reached my building, Daniel was still at the front desk.
He gave Dad a cautious nod.
Then he looked at me.
“No one has come back.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“There is one thing.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“A woman called earlier asking whether you were home.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn't give her name.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she sound like?”
“Older. Nervous.”
Mom.
“Did she leave a message?”
Daniel shook his head.
“She only asked whether your sister had been here.”
I exchanged a look with Dad.
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
Daniel nodded.
As we entered the elevator, Dad finally spoke.
“Your mother needs help.”
I looked at him.
“So does Megan.”
“She is still my daughter.”
“I know.”
“And your mother is still my wife.”
“I know that too.”
He stared at the elevator doors.
“I don't know how to separate loving someone from protecting yourself from them.”
I understood.
Maybe that was the lesson none of us had learned soon enough.
Love could remain after trust disappeared.
It didn't mean the door had to stay open.
Inside my apartment, I checked every lock before sitting down.
Dad looked around.
“This place feels different.”
“It is.”
He gave a faint smile.
“Because of the lock?”
“Because I finally understand what it means.”
He nodded.
We sat at the kitchen table.
After a few minutes, Dad asked, “What do you think Megan will do?”
“Tell the truth, maybe.”
“You believe that?”
“I want to.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
We both knew it.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Detective Lee.
“Do not respond. We need to speak tomorrow before further contact.”
Attached was a photograph.
It showed a document recovered from my parents' house.
The top line read:
INTERNATIONAL TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION.
My name appeared near the bottom.
Again.
I stared at it.
“I never signed this.”
Dad looked over my shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Another forged document.”
“Where was it found?”
“My parents' house.”
Dad closed his eyes.
The investigation was spreading through every place I had once considered safe.
Then I noticed something.
The destination account was not in Cambodia.
It was in Singapore.
The receiving bank was listed as an intermediary.
I sent the photograph to Ramirez without adding anything.
His response came less than a minute later.
“Do not speculate. We are checking.”
I put the phone down.
Dad looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing yet.”
He nodded.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
“Megan once asked me whether you had ever traveled internationally.”
I looked up.
“When?”
“Several months ago.”
“Why?”
“She said she was planning a family trip.”
“Did she mention Cambodia?”
“No.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing important.”
I stared at the table.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was another coincidence.
But there had been too many coincidences.
At 1:18 a.m., Dad left.
I locked the door behind him.
Then I sat at my computer.
I didn't sleep.
Instead, I reviewed every document I had.
The fraudulent credit application.
The Cedar Ridge paperwork.
The business registration.
The warehouse records.
The transfer to Megan.
The forged guarantee.
The international authorization.
One thing bothered me.
The amounts didn't line up.
The spreadsheet showed $47,500.
Dad's money accounted for $7,500.
My pending credit was $12,000.
Kevin's projected amount was $15,000.
Mom's target was $9,000.
That totaled $43,500.
Four thousand dollars remained.
Exactly the amount listed as personal savings.
But the warehouse transaction required much more.
So where was the rest?
I opened the business registration again.
MC Strategy Group.
Registered capital: $4,000.
That matched.
The company itself had almost no legitimate resources.
It was a shell with a story.
Then I noticed a second company.
Cedar Operations.
I searched the registration records.
The listed owner wasn't Megan.
It was a man named Daniel Voss.
My stomach tightened.
The company address was the same warehouse.
The same warehouse that had burned.
Daniel hadn't merely lent Megan money.
He had an ownership connection to the property.
That changed everything.
I searched the property records.
Cedar Operations had purchased the warehouse eighteen months earlier.
Then, six months later, it had transferred partial ownership to another company.
That company was connected to Arthur Bell.
Then the property was scheduled to be purchased by Megan's company.
The same property was moving between companies controlled by people connected to one another.
I printed everything.
Then my phone rang.
Ramirez.
“Did you find something?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
I explained the property transfers.
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Don't send anything else tonight.”
“Why?”
“We already have records on that property.”
“So you knew?”
“We suspected.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because we didn't want you interfering with the investigation.”
Fair.
“What happens tomorrow?”
“We're interviewing Megan again.”
“Can I be there?”
“No.”
I understood.
Then Ramirez added:
“We also located Michael Turner.”
My body went still.
“Where?”
“Not in Cambodia.”
“Then where?”
He paused.
“Taiwan.”
I stared at the wall.
“Was he arrested?”
“Not yet.”
“Is he still traveling?”
“We believe he is.”
“Then why did you tell me Cambodia?”
“Because that was the destination listed on one passport record.”
I closed my eyes.
“Does he have multiple passports?”
“We don't know.”
“Then how do you know it's the same man?”
“We're working on that.”
The line ended.
I sat there in the dark.
The investigation was no longer a straight line.
It was a web.
Megan.
Michael.
Daniel.
Arthur.
The warehouse.
The shell companies.
My documents.
My family.
And somewhere beyond all of them, a person who seemed to have been moving money and identities for years.
At 4:36 a.m., I received an email from an unknown address.
There was no subject.
Only one sentence.
“You are looking in the wrong place.”
Attached was a photograph.
It showed the interior of a warehouse.
Not the burned building.
Another one.
A blue metal door stood at the far end.
On the wall was a handwritten number.
47.
I stared at it.
Then I zoomed in.
There was a familiar object on a desk.
The blue document box Mom had claimed she destroyed.
My heart stopped.
The box was still intact.
And someone had photographed it recently.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Blue Box Was Still Somewhere, and Its Contents Could Finally Explain Why Megan Had Been Borrowing Money Long Before My Apartment Became Her Target
One Casual Text Turned Into a Family Demand I Had Never Agreed To, and I Realized Too Late That My Apartment Was Only the Beginning
Part 13 of 20
