Chapter 9 - The Long Night in Lake Oswego
By midnight, the house on Elm Street was nearly hollowed out, echoing with the sounds of packing tape and shuffling boots.
Miriam sat on a single wooden crate in the empty dining room, clutching her handbag to her chest like a life preserver.
Wesley was on his phone on the back patio, desperately calling old college acquaintances and distant cousins to beg for a guest room.
Every single call ended with an awkward excuse, a click, and a dial tone.
The news of his corporate termination had already leaked through Portland’s tightly knit logistics network.
No one wanted to harbor an accused embezzler whose legal battles were about to splash across local business journals.
By sunrise, the appraiser had finished his work, affixing an official commercial lockbox to the front door handle.
The movers carried out the final crate containing my grandmother’s antique porcelain set, loading it into the secure truck.
Wesley stood in the gravel driveway, his hair disheveled and his designer suit rumpled from a sleepless night on the floor.
"The divorce court will reverse this, Renata," he croaked, his voice raw from dust and exhaustion.
Marcus stepped between Wesley and my car, handing him a sealed white envelope.
"This is the formal waiver of spousal support, Mr. Chen. In exchange, Mrs. Chen has agreed not to submit the criminal audit to the federal prosecutor."
"Sign it, or the FBI field office receives the digital ledger at 9:00 AM on Monday morning."
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Wesley stared at the envelope, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the pen onto the wet asphalt.
He bent down, picked it up, and signed his name against the hood of his mother's idling rental sedan.
