“Does your mother know?”
Amelia shook her head.
“Trevor didn’t want to tell her,” she said. “He said it would just make everything worse.”
Brody took a deep breath, recalibrating his plans.
“I need you to go home now,” he said. “But tomorrow, things are going to change. I promise you that.”
After safely returning Amelia home with Wyatt’s help—Wyatt idled his pickup truck down the side street while Amelia slipped back into the subdivision—Brody made one final call to Leona.
“We need to accelerate the timeline,” he said. “And add one more component to our strategy.”
“What’s changed?” she asked.
“Everything,” Brody replied. “Hayes crossed a line he can’t uncross.”
The Hayes Development Group offices occupied the twenty-seventh floor of one of Atlanta’s premier business towers—glass, chrome, and calculated intimidation. From the conference room, you could see the curve of the interstate, the gold dome of the state capitol, and the American flag flapping atop the federal courthouse.
When Brody arrived for their 9:00 a.m. meeting, Hayes was waiting with two attorneys and a smug smile.
“Mr. Harlo,” he greeted, extending his hand. “I appreciate your pragmatism in this matter.”
Brody ignored the outstretched hand.
“Where’s Melanie?” he asked. “She should be here.”
Hayes’s smile tightened.
“Melanie trusted me to handle the financial aspects,” he said. “She’ll join us for the final signatures.”
“That won’t work,” Brody said calmly. “I need all parties present before we proceed.”
One of Hayes’s attorneys, a nervous-looking younger man, shifted uncomfortably.
“Mr. Hayes assured us Mrs. Harlo had approved these terms,” he offered.
“Did she approve them in writing?” Brody asked.
“I have her power of attorney for business matters,” Hayes interjected smoothly.
“This isn’t a business matter,” Brody replied. “It’s a divorce settlement affecting my children. Either Melanie attends, or we reconvene when she’s available.”
Hayes’s jaw tightened before he forced another smile.
“Of course,” he said. “Let me call her.”
As Hayes stepped away to make the call, the conference room door opened again.
Leona entered, followed by a stern-looking man in a conservative suit.
“Mr. Harlo, apologies for the delay,” Leona said briskly. “Agent Donovan was held up in traffic.”
Hayes snapped his head up from his phone.
“Agent?” he repeated.
“Franklin Donovan, FBI, Financial Crimes Division,” the man introduced himself, placing his credentials on the table. “I’m here as an observer only.”
At this point, Hayes’s attorneys exchanged alarmed glances.
“What is this?” Hayes demanded, returning to the table.
“Insurance,” Brody replied. “Is Melanie coming?”
“She’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Hayes said, his confident demeanor now visibly strained. “Perhaps we should delay until—”
“Perfect timing,” Brody interrupted. “That gives us just enough time to review some additional documents I’ve brought.”
Leona distributed folders to everyone present.
“These materials document a pattern of securities fraud, wire fraud, and conspiracy spanning seven years in three states,” she said.
Hayes laughed, but it sounded hollow.
“This is absurd,” he said. “A transparent attempt at extortion.”
“No extortion,” Brody said calmly. “Just facts. You’ve defrauded previous romantic partners through manipulated real estate investments. You’re attempting the same with my wife and her trust fund. And most recently, you’ve physically assaulted my sixteen-year-old son.”
Hayes’s face drained of color.
“That’s a lie,” he said sharply. “I never—”
“We have photographs of the bruises,” Brody cut him off. “And witness statements.”
The conference room door opened again as Melanie arrived, looking confused and increasingly alarmed as she took in the scene: lawyers, an FBI agent, her husband, her lover.
“What’s happening?” she demanded. “Preston, why is there an FBI agent here?”
“Mrs. Harlo,” Agent Donovan acknowledged. “Please join us. We were just discussing your investment in the Costa Rica development.”
“My investment?” Melanie looked to Hayes. “What investment?”
“The 1.2 million dollar transfer you authorized three weeks ago,” Brody supplied. “For the Villa Paraso development.”
Melanie froze.
“That wasn’t an investment,” she said slowly. “That was a property purchase. Our retirement home.”
“There is no retirement home,” Brody said gently. “The development exists only on paper. The property you think you purchased is an undeveloped parcel of land worth less than a hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s not possible,” Melanie whispered. “Preston showed me the plans, the photos, the renderings—”
“—and stock photos,” Leona interjected, sliding additional documents toward Melanie. “Here are the actual property records, permits—or lack thereof—and banking transfers showing where your money actually went.”
Melanie sank into a chair, staring at the evidence.
“Preston, tell me this isn’t true,” she said.
Hayes’s mask of confidence cracked completely.
“Melanie, this is a misunderstanding,” he protested. “The development is in the early stages—”
“The development doesn’t exist,” Agent Donovan stated flatly. “We’ve been investigating Mr. Hayes for eighteen months. Your husband’s evidence has simply accelerated our timeline.”
Melanie’s head snapped up.
“You knew about this?” she asked Brody.
“I suspected something was wrong when I saw the Costa Rica plans,” Brody replied. “The investigation confirmed it.”
“So this whole meeting was a trap,” Hayes spat. “Your husband set us both up.”
“No,” Brody corrected. “Just you. Melanie is as much a victim of your fraud as your previous partners were.”
Hayes’s attorneys were already gathering their belongings, mumbling about needing to consult with their firm partners.
“And what about Trevor?” Melanie asked, her voice barely audible. “What did you mean about assault?”
Brody slid a photo across the table. Trevor’s arm, with clear finger-shaped bruises.
“Thursday night,” he said. “When Trevor refused to let him into his room.”
Melanie stared at the photo, then at Hayes, horror dawning on her face.
“You hurt my son,” she whispered.
“He was being disrespectful,” Hayes protested. “I barely grabbed him—”
The slap echoed in the conference room as Melanie’s palm connected with Hayes’s face.
“You lying bastard,” she hissed. “You promised me you would never—”
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
