“Great. We signed a contract on a new project,” he said. The lie came out of him as smoothly as breathing. I nodded and smiled and played my part in the absurd little play we were both now performing.
The next day, I asked for help. Calling Evelyn Lapin—a friend I had drifted away from after I quit working—filled me with shame. Years of silence sat heavy on me. But Evelyn was an accountant, and if anyone could make sense of the financial maze in those photos, it was her.
“Zoe,” she said when she answered, sounding surprised. “Well, look who’s alive. I figured you’d forgotten the rest of us regular people.” “Evelyn, I really need your help,” I said.
We met at a coffee shop on the edge of town, far from the business district and far from anyone likely to know the Severtsevs. Evelyn looked great—confident, successful, fully herself. Sitting across from her in my plain sweater, I felt like a faded version of the woman I used to be.
“Good grief, Zoe, you’ve gotten so thin,” she said, looking me over with concern. “What, did your prince put you on a budget?” I pulled out my phone and showed her the pictures, avoiding her eyes.
“Please look at these. And please keep this between us,” I said. Evelyn started scrolling. With every minute, her face grew darker. She ordered a second coffee, then a third, and every so often she let out a low whistle.
Finally she looked up at me, stunned. “Zoe, sweetheart, this is textbook money laundering through real estate. These are huge numbers,” she said. “Money comes in from shady sources, gets run through shell companies, cleaned through property deals, and then disappears offshore.”
“Your husband is in deep,” she said flatly. “So what do I do now?” I asked. “You go to law enforcement before this gets any worse,” she said without hesitation.
“I know someone in the state investigative unit—Major Ethan Larin. Straight arrow, which is rare these days. If you want, I’ll give you his number.”
I took the slip of paper and held it all the way home, trying to process the scale of what I had uncovered. My husband wasn’t just a cheat and a control freak. He was a criminal. And all these years, I had been the perfect cover: respectable wife, nice home, polished image.
Calling Major Larin was harder than breaking into Gleb’s office. I dialed and hung up at least ten times before I finally forced myself to wait for the answer. “Larin speaking,” said a calm, steady voice.
“Hello, Major Larin. My name is Zoe Severtsev. Evelyn Lapin gave me your number. I have information about possible financial crimes involving real estate.” “I understand,” he said. “Can you come in today?”
He gave me an address and told me to come in an hour. His office was in a government building that smelled faintly of copier toner and old paint. Major Larin turned out to be a man in his mid-forties with an open face and a firm handshake—the kind of person you want to trust almost immediately…
