Chapter 7 - Shattered Alibis
The private recovery room at St. Jude’s was quiet, filled only with the soft, rhythmic hum of the air conditioner and the gentle rustle of turning pages.
Lena sat propped up against a stack of feather pillows, her cast resting comfortably on a padded tray table. She was reading a book on financial independence—a small, symbolic step toward reclaiming a life that had been dictated by fear for far too long.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Detective Vance stepped inside, holding a thick manila envelope.
"Morning, Lena. Morning, Mr. Reynolds," Vance greeted respectfully, tipping his hat.
"Detective," I said, rising from my chair to shake his hand. "Any updates on the case?"
"Plenty," Vance said, taking a seat beside the bed. He pulled out several printed photographs and laid them across the tray table. "We executed a search warrant on Travis’s downtown secondary apartment late last night. Along with a substantial amount of undeclared cash and digital crypto wallets, we found something very interesting."
He pointed to a photograph showing a high-end designer handbag resting on a marble kitchen island, next to an open jewelry box filled with expensive diamond tennis bracelets and gold necklaces.
"That doesn't belong to Lena," I noted immediately.
"No, it doesn't," Vance agreed. "It belongs to a woman named Brittany Moore, who works as a hostess at the country club where Travis spent his afternoons. According to our digital forensics team, Travis purchased these items using embezzled funds from the family trust just forty-eight hours before the assault."
Lena stared down at the photographs, her expression remarkably calm. There were no tears left to cry; there was only the cold, sharp clarity of betrayal being washed away by truth.
"He told me we were struggling financially," Lena said softly, her voice steady. "Every time I asked about our household budget, he screamed at me, accusing me of spending too much money on groceries or medical check-ups. Meanwhile, he was draining everything behind my back."
"Well, Miss Moore is currently cooperating with our prosecutors," Vance said, standing up and tucking his notebook away. "She thought Travis was a wealthy, successful independent real estate mogul. Turns out she’s just as shocked to find out he’s broke, disgraced, and facing felony charges for domestic assault and grand larceny."
"What’s next?" Derek asked from the corner of the room, where he had been quietly sharpening a pocketknife with a whetstone—a habit he had whenever things got too still.
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"Arraignment is tomorrow morning," Vance replied, eyeing Derek’s knife with a faint, knowing smirk. "The District Attorney’s office is throwing the book at him. First-degree domestic assault, felony property destruction, terroristic threats, and grand larceny. With Judge Miller stepping down and refusing to intervene, Travis is looking at a minimum of fifteen years without the possibility of parole."
"Good," Derek said, snapping the pocketknife shut with a sharp clack. "Let him rot."
