I called Allison Wittmann immediately.
She answered on the second ring.
Her voice was young but hardened, the kind of voice that comes from years of carrying grief and turning it into steel.
“Mr. Fletcher,” she said. “I saw the engagement photo. The man standing next to your daughter. His name is not Nathan Cross.”
“I know,” I said. “His name is Neil Carmichael.”
There was a long silence.
Then she exhaled, and I heard something crack in her voice.
“You know his real name. Do you know how we could never find it?”
“I hired an investigator six days ago,” I said. “He confirmed it this morning.”
“Then you know what he did,” Allison said quietly. “You know what he is.”
“Tell me about your father.”
Another silence.
Then she spoke, and I listened.
Her father had been a good man. He built a medical-equipment company from nothing. Two hundred employees. After her mother passed, he poured everything into the business and into Allison.
Three years ago, Allison brought someone home.
Richard Brennan.
Venture capital consultant.
Her father, lonely and generous, welcomed him.
Richard became like a son. Sunday dinners. Golf on Saturdays. Business advice over coffee.
He convinced Raymond to invest in a biotech startup. The documents looked legitimate. The projections were flawless. Raymond invested 1.8 million dollars.
Three months later, the money was gone.
Richard was gone.
The company could not make payroll. Raymond lost everything—the business, the savings, the reputation he had spent forty years building.
For six months, he tried to find Richard Brennan. He hired lawyers, filed reports, contacted every agency he could think of.
Nothing.
Employees lost their jobs. Raymond lost his house.
“He left a letter,” Allison said, her voice breaking. “He said he was sorry. He said he had failed me.”
I closed my eyes.
“I am so sorry.”
“And I was the one who lost him,” she said, then steadied herself. “Help me catch him.”
She told me about the three years since.
She became a lawyer specializing in financial fraud. She traced every lead she could find about Richard Brennan. She found the fake identities. She found partial matches, places where he had appeared and vanished before anyone could act.
In Charleston, she heard about a similar case. A woman named Melissa Hartley, scammed by a man named Nathan Shaw. But by the time Allison arrived, the family had already paid him off to avoid a scandal.
In Denver, she heard about Andrew Pierce. But he disappeared before she could get there.
“I have been six months behind him for three years,” she said. “Until now.”
She saw the engagement announcement last week. She recognized his face immediately. She stared at the photo for an hour, feeling sick.
He was holding my daughter’s hand. He was smiling like he had already won.
It took her a week to figure out how to reach me. She searched public records, found the Fletcher family trust filings, found Laura Bennett’s name.
“Mr. Fletcher,” she said, “this is what I have learned. He never works alone.”
“My investigator said the same thing,” I told her. “He found evidence of shell companies.”
“In Boston, someone drafted the investment documents,” Allison said. “The legal language was extremely professional. In Charleston, someone handled the offshore transactions. In Denver, someone created fake company registrations. He has an accomplice—someone with legal or financial expertise. Maybe a lawyer. Maybe a paralegal or accountant. I have not found them yet.”
“My investigator is tracking them,” I said. “He says he will have more in the next day or two.”
“When you find them,” Allison said, “I want to be there. I want to see both of them arrested.”
“You will,” I said. “I promise.”
“How is your daughter?”
“Angry,” I said. “Scared. But she is strong. She was the one who found the first evidence.”
“My father did not get that chance,” Allison said quietly. “Neil destroyed him before he even knew he was a target.”
“Your daughter is smart. She will survive this.”
“She will,” I said. “And Neil will never do this to anyone else. I guarantee it.”
“The wedding is in nine weeks?” Allison asked.
“The rehearsal dinner is in eight,” I said. “I think that is when we move.”
“I can come to Oregon,” Allison said. “I want to be there when you take him down.”
“I will let you know,” I said. Then I paused. “Allison, one more thing. Your father did not fail you. He loved you. He was targeted by a professional criminal. That is not failure. That is being human.”
Her voice broke.
“He passed away thinking he had failed me.”
“Then we will tell Neil,” I said. “When we catch him, we will let him know that the people he destroys are remembered.”
That night I sat in the dark office. Raymond’s story echoed in my mind. A father trying to protect his daughter, losing everything. A daughter coming home and facing a loss no child should face.
That could have been me and Clare.
I heard Kate’s voice.
But you are not Raymond. Clare is not Allison. You still have time.
I answered her aloud.
“I am doing this for Raymond. For Allison. For every family Neil has destroyed. This ends with us. Right here.”
Frank called Wednesday evening, two days after the first bombshell.
I was having dinner with Clare at the estate, telling her about Allison, when my phone buzzed.
Frank’s voice was different this time. Tighter. More urgent.
“Graham,” he said, “I found the accomplice. And I found their plan. You need to hear this now.”
I put the phone on speaker.
“Go ahead. Clare’s here.”
