The rain poured over Brighton Falls, but nothing outside matched the storm inside me. I stood in the hallway of the home I’d shared with my husband for eight years, clutching a small leather bag with every possession I owned. Graham didn’t yell. He didn’t argue. He simply pointed toward the door.
“Pack your things, Claudia. It’s over.”
Shock froze me. My voice cracked: “What?” No explanation came. No remorse. Eight years of shared life, and in one cold gesture, I was gone. The door shut behind me, leaving a silence that cut deeper than any fight ever could.
My father’s last words echoed in my mind—the ones he whispered from his hospital bed just a week before he died: “Claudia, if life ever becomes unbearable, there’s something I’ve left for you. Don’t tell Graham. Don’t tell anyone. Use it wisely.”
The next morning, at a tiny inn on Kingston Avenue, I handed the receptionist a strange metal card engraved with a lion holding a shield. Within minutes, a man in a charcoal suit appeared.
“Ms. Hayes, I’m Agent Malcolm Reid, U.S. Treasury High-Asset Division,” he said calmly. “I need to speak with you.”
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