Chapter 9 - The Rats Turn
By Tuesday morning, the internet had executed a total, merciless U-turn.
The hashtag *#JusticeForHailey* vanished, replaced by *#SloaneTheSavage* and *#TheVegasGrift*. The audio recording of Hailey plotting to steal my grandmother's diamond choker had been remixed into a viral club track that was currently the number one sound on TikTok. Hailey had deleted all six of her weeping videos, shut down her comments, and was reportedly hiding inside a fifty-dollar-a-night motel room in Barstow after being kicked out of her North Las Vegas accommodations when the front desk clerk recognized her from the press conference.
At two in the afternoon, Victoria Vance walked into my study with a file marked *CONFIDENTIAL: CLARK COUNTY PROSECUTOR’S OFFICE*.
She sat down, crossed her legs, and poured herself a glass of Pellegrino.
"The rats are eating each other, Sloane," she said with deep satisfaction.
"Tell me," I replied, leaning back in my leather armchair.
"The Clark County District Attorney brought Hailey in for a supplementary deposition this morning, accompanied by a public defender because Richard Montgomery’s credit cards were declined at three private defense firms in Las Vegas," Victoria smirked. "The moment the prosecutor laid out the wire fraud charges—which carry up to twenty years in federal custody—Hailey broke like a cheap folding chair."
"Did she sign a proffer?"
"She sang an entire opera," Victoria said, tossing the deposition transcript onto my desk. "She testified under penalty of perjury that Trevor initiated the entire scheme eight months ago. She claimed Trevor told her that he was legally entitled to fifty percent of Vanguard Holdings, but needed to stage an 'explosive domestic separation' to force an immediate out-of-court buyout before your forensic accountants could audit his gym’s books."
"And what did she say about the gym?"
Victoria leaned forward, her eyes glittering. "This is the nail in the coffin, Sloane. Trevor didn't just lose money on his fitness startup. Nathan Cross was right to be suspicious of Aura Apex Ventures. Trevor was using the Santa Monica gym location as a physical distribution hub for unregulated, black-market peptides and high-end counterfeit aesthetics—imported from an unlicensed laboratory in Tijuana."
I stared at her, genuinely surprised. "He was running a black-market pharmaceutical ring out of my commercial retail lease?"
"Hailey provided the encrypted WhatsApp chat logs, the supplier names, and the tracking numbers," Victoria said. "She kept backups of everything on a hidden Google Drive because she didn't trust Trevor not to cut her out once they reached Costa Rica. She handed the keys to the kingdom over to the DEA this morning in exchange for a deferred prosecution agreement on the corporate theft charges."
"So Hailey walks?" I asked, my eyes narrowing.
"Hailey avoids federal prison," Victoria clarified. "But she doesn't walk. The Nevada Gaming Control Board still has her on the hook for accessory to the casino marker fraud, and California will charge her with possession of stolen property over twenty thousand dollars. She’s looking at five years of supervised felony probation, four thousand hours of community service, and a mandatory restitution order to Vanguard Holdings of four hundred and twenty thousand dollars."
"Which she will never be able to pay," I noted.
"Which means for the rest of her natural life, twenty-five percent of any legitimate paycheck she ever earns will be automatically garnished and deposited directly into your corporate bank account," Victoria smiled wolfishly. "You literally own her future labor."
"And Trevor?"
Victoria’s smile vanished, replaced by cold, professional finality. "When Trevor’s lawyer told him that Hailey had turned state's evidence and handed over the pharmaceutical distribution logs, he tried to punch his own attorney through the conference mesh. He’s been moved to the maximum-security psychiatric wing of the Clark County Detention Center. The DEA, the IRS, and the Gaming Commission are all filing formal indictments by Friday. Between the interstate theft, the bad marker, the tax evasion, and the unregulated pharmaceuticals... Trevor is looking at twenty-four to thirty years. He will be an old, broken man before he ever sees the California sun again."
I sat in silence for a long moment, looking down at the transcript.
There was no joy in it. No triumphant thrill.
Just the clean, sterile satisfaction of an architect looking at a demolished, structurally unsound wall that had finally been leveled to the bedrock.
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"Serve the final annulment papers to his public defender," I said. "And make sure the judge signs the emergency name restoration order. I want the name *Sterling* erased from every document, every bank account, and every corporate filing by Friday."
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