Chapter 14 - The Crime Scene
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Returning to my own home felt like stepping into a tomb.
I stood in the doorway, flanked by Vivian, Agent Hale, and a private forensic team Hale had authorized. The penthouse looked exactly as I had left it the night before.
The dining room was a disaster zone. Dried wine stained my Persian rug. The shattered crystal I had pulled from the table glittered menacingly in the afternoon sunlight. Grant’s heavy wooden chair was still tipped backward on the floor, and a dark, ugly smudge on the marble counter marked exactly where he had extinguished his cigarette.
It wasn't my sanctuary anymore. It was a crime scene.
"Start sweeping," Hale ordered his team.
I walked slowly toward the master bedroom. Half of Ryan's massive walk-in closet had been emptied. His expensive watches—the ones I had bought him—were gone.
I opened my jewelry drawer. Empty. Just as Hale had warned.
I sat heavily on the edge of the custom king-sized bed. I ran my hand over the sheets, feeling a deep, suffocating sense of violation.
"Claire," Vivian called out softly from the doorway. "Don't touch anything. Let the techs work."
A technician in blue gloves crawled under Ryan's side of the bed. He shined a flashlight up toward the wooden slats.
"Agent Hale," the tech called out. "Got one."
Hale walked in, crouching down. The tech used a pair of tweezers to pull a tiny, black square device from underneath the bed frame.
"What is that?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"It's a localized audio bug," Hale said grimly, dropping it into an evidence bag. "Voice activated."
I covered my mouth. He had been listening to me. In our bedroom.
"Keep looking," Hale barked.
Over the next hour, the team found three more bugs. One taped under my home office desk. One behind the vanity mirror in my bathroom. And one inside the leather interior of my daily work briefcase.
"He didn't just track your money," Vivian said, looking ill. "He tracked every breath you took."
I walked out of the bedroom and headed straight for Ryan's office. I rarely went in there. He had always claimed he needed absolute privacy for his "consulting work." I respected his boundaries because I thought a healthy marriage required trust.
I pushed the door open. The police had already tossed it during the raid. Drawers were yanked open, papers scattered.
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But as I looked at the heavy mahogany bookshelf covering the back wall, something caught my eye. The baseboard trim didn't line up perfectly. There were faint, crescent-shaped scratch marks on the hardwood floor.
"Hale," I called out. "Move this shelf."
