“Linda Carroway,” Price repeated, “we have legal authorization to search the premises.”
“This is harassment.”
“No, ma’am. This is procedure.”
Linda looked at me with contempt so pure it felt almost peaceful.
“You always needed an audience.”
“And you always mistook silence for weakness.”
The agents entered.
The search began in the office, then the bedroom, then the garage. They photographed the desk where Ryan had likely forged my signatures. They collected hard drives, folders, old tax boxes, a locked filing cabinet Ryan claimed never to have seen.
I stood near the fireplace and watched strangers uncover the skeleton of my marriage one folder at a time.
But Ryan had said not where you think.
After two hours, the agents had found evidence of financial fraud but nothing large enough to match Ryan’s fear.
Price approached me quietly. “Colonel, is there any part of the house your husband or his mother was especially protective of?”
I thought about it.
Then I remembered the hallway closet.
Not large. Not remarkable. Just a narrow linen closet near the guest bathroom.
Three years earlier, I had tried to clean it out and found the back panel strangely loose. Ryan had snapped at me so sharply I had frozen with a stack of towels in my arms. Later he apologized with flowers and a story about childhood memories stored there, saying Linda had kept old things from his father and did not like them disturbed.
I looked toward the hallway.
“The linen closet,” I said.
For the first time all day, Linda moved.
It was tiny. A twitch of the hand. A tightening around the eyes.
Price noticed.
Hollow.
Linda stood.
“You have no right,” she said.
Price turned. “Ma’am, sit down.”
“You have no right!”
The agent pried loose the false panel.
Behind it was a narrow compartment packed floor to ceiling with sealed plastic sleeves, external drives, cash bundles, passports, and manila envelopes labeled in precise handwriting.
Not Ryan’s handwriting.
