The Shell Game

Bella’s hand on her stomach felt like a brand, searing the air between us with a truth I wasn't prepared to handle. I looked away first, my eyes catching the reflection of our "happy family" in the polished chrome of the toaster. We were a funhouse mirror version of reality, distorted and grotesque.

"I need to go," I whispered, the words catching in my dry throat. "I forgot I have a conference call with the vendors."

I didn't wait for Rose’s protest or Bella’s saccharine pout. I fled to the Audi, my hands shaking so violently I dropped my keys twice in the driveway. The engine roared to life, a mechanical scream that matched the one trapped in my chest.

I didn't go to the office. I went back to the only place where the truth didn't have a face: the regional library.

I sat at the same carrel, the air-conditioned chill biting through my coat. I pulled up the shadow ledger I’d started this morning. I needed to know the depth of the hole they were digging for me.

The 'LifeChoice LLC' wires were the key. I searched the company registration records on the deep web portal Leo had shown me. The ownership wasn't hidden behind a complex trust this time. They had been lazy.

*LifeChoice LLC. Principal Officer: Gregory Lassiter.*

Greg. Mark’s college roommate. The man who had been the best man at our wedding. The man who had "moved to Costa Rica" last year to open a surf school.

I dug deeper into the company’s merchant account. Every payment to Dr. Thorne’s clinic was funneled through a payroll service called 'Vance Special Projects.' Mark was using company funds to pay for the medical procedures, masking them as 'Subcontractor Retention.'

He was making the business pay for the child he was having with my sister.

My vision blurred, the rows of numbers turning into jagged streaks of red and black. I scrolled through the bank metadata attached to the LifeChoice account. There was a secondary beneficiary listed for the year-end sweep.

*Account Holder: G. Lassiter. Financial Institution: Banco de San José, Costa Rica.*

Greg wasn't just a best man; he was the bagman. He was holding the stash.

I opened a private flight tracker tab and typed in Greg’s legal name. I didn't expect a hit—people like Greg flew commercial to blend in.

The screen refreshed. A manifest for a flight out of Columbus International popped up. It was a budget airline, the kind of flight a "struggling surfer" would take.

*Passenger: Lassiter, Gregory. Status: Checked In. Departure: Feb 20, 06:15 AM.*

That was three days from now. The same day the bank default would trigger if the payroll didn't clear. The same day Mark wanted me at the spa.

I checked the return flight. There wasn't one.

The roommate, Greg, had just bought a one-way ticket to Costa Rica too.