“You’re under arrest for identity theft and fraud.”
Emily screamed. “You can’t just—”
The officer was already moving, pulling cuffs from his belt.
“Turn around, sir.”
Marcus looked at me, direct. “You’re really doing this.”
I held his gaze.
“You did this,” I said. “I’m just finishing it.”
The cuffs clicked. Loud. Final.
They read him his rights while Emily cried behind him, reaching for him, not understanding that none of that mattered anymore. He was led out the door into the cold night without another word.
Peterson turned to the second officer.
“George McCoy. Sandra McCoy,” he said, handing over another set of documents. “Co-conspirators. Evidence of joint participation in identity theft, fraud, and forgery.”
My father’s face went completely gray.
“Wait,” he started.
The officer didn’t let him finish. “You’re under arrest.”
My mother broke then.
“Kathy, please,” she cried. “We’re your parents.”
I looked at her, and for the first time in my life I answered without hesitation.
“You stopped being my parents when you forged my name.”
The cuffs went on. They were read their rights, and then they were led out the same door Marcus had gone through minutes earlier.
My mother looked back once.
I didn’t.
The door closed.
And just like that, the house was quiet.
The house stayed quiet after the door closed. Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful. The kind that feels hollow, like everything loud had been ripped out of it all at once and left something empty behind.
It was just me, Grandma, and Peterson standing in the middle of a room that still smelled like wine and perfume and the last hour of someone else’s illusion.
Grandma sat down slowly on the couch like the adrenaline had finally drained out of her all at once. She looked smaller than she had an hour ago, older in a way that hadn’t shown when she first walked through the door.
“Are you all right, Kathy?” she asked.
I sat beside her, my body finally catching up to everything that had just happened.
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly.
She took my hand. Her grip was steady, warm, grounding in a way nothing else in that room was.
“You will be.”
We sat there for a minute without speaking, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, just heavy. The sirens from outside faded slowly into the distance.
Peterson cleared his throat lightly from across the room.
“There’s something else.”
I looked up. At that point, I didn’t even know what something else could mean anymore.
He had a tablet in his hand now, scrolling through a report.
“The forensic accountant just sent this through. They’ve been working overnight.”
He turned the screen toward me.
“Offshore account. Cayman Islands. Account holder: Melissa Carter. Balance: $430,000.”
I stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Unreported income,” Peterson said. “She’s been transferring money out of the Airbnb operation in small increments for the last three years, keeping it off the books.”
I felt my chest tighten again, but this time it wasn’t shock. It was confirmation.
“She was hiding it.”
“She was preparing to leave,” he corrected.
He scrolled down.
“Applications for residency in three countries: Costa Rica, Panama, Portugal.”
I exhaled slowly.
“She was going to run.”
“Yes.”
Grandma leaned forward slightly. “Can we seize it?”
“A motion is already filed,” Peterson said. “But there’s more.”
He tapped another document open.
“This account was never declared to the IRS.”
I didn’t need him to explain that part.
“Tax evasion,” I said.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Five additional years minimum, possibly more, depending on how aggressively the federal prosecutor pursues it. Penalties could exceed $800,000.”
