THE FEVER THAT BURNED THE LIES AWAY

The interrogation room was freezing.

I sat at the metal table, the handcuffs biting into my wrists.

Detective Ramirez dropped a thick file onto the table.

“Your mother-in-law provided us with bank statements this morning,” Ramirez said, leaning forward. “They show three million dollars moved from your firm’s escrow directly into an offshore account in your name. We also searched your car outside the bank. We found the missing trust ledgers in your trunk.”

My car. The thug from Clara’s apartment last night. He hadn't just been trying to break in; he had planted the fake ledgers in my trunk while I was upstairs.

Vivian had covered every angle.

“I didn't do it,” I said, my voice steady despite the fever still lingering in my blood. “Marcus forged my signature.”

“Marcus Vance is a respected developer,” Ramirez said skeptically. “Why would he frame his wife?”

“Because I found out he murdered my father,” I said.

Ramirez paused. He looked at me, studying my face for any sign of madness.

“My father’s safe deposit box,” I continued. “Box 404 at First National. I have a flash drive. It requires my biometric thumbprint to open. It contains audio of Marcus threatening my father days before his fatal 'accident'.”

Ramirez frowned. He walked to the evidence box sitting in the corner of the room, pulled out the flash drive I had surrendered during my arrest, and plugged it into his laptop.

He turned the screen toward me. I pressed my thumb against the small scanner on the side of the drive.

The file decrypted. An audio file popped up. Ramirez clicked play.

The room filled with the sound of my father’s voice, calm and resolute. “I know about the syndicate, Marcus. I’m cutting you out of the will.”

Then, Marcus’s voice, cold and venomous. “You make a move against me, old man, and I will make sure your car doesn't make it down the mountain on Sunday.”

Ramirez’s jaw tightened. He stopped the recording.

“That proves he had motive for murder,” Ramirez said slowly. “But it doesn't prove he framed you for the embezzlement. Your signature is on the bank transfers.”

“Detective,” I said, leaning closer to the table. “Six months ago, I started noticing things missing from my home. Antiques. Jewelry. So, I hired a private security firm to install hidden cameras in the walls of the study and the kitchen. The footage backs up directly to my firm’s secure cloud server.”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow. “You have footage of the forgery?”

“I have footage of Marcus and Vivian sitting in my kitchen, practicing my signature on tracing paper for three hours,” I said. “I have footage of Vivian admitting she hired the thug to plant the evidence in my car. If you give me a laptop, I will pull the video right now.”

Ramirez didn't hesitate. He pushed the laptop toward me.

Within two minutes, the pristine, 4K video of my husband and mother-in-law plotting my downfall played in the interrogation room.

“Make sure the ink matches,” Vivian’s voice echoed from the laptop. “Once she’s in prison, the firm’s assets default to you as her husband. We take it all.”

Ramirez closed the laptop. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked my handcuffs.