Chapter 3

Our usual spot was my rental apartment, which cost 1,200 dollars a month. At 11:00 pm on the dot, a black van pulled up downstairs.

Sabrina wore a beige trench coat, her sunglasses sitting low on her nose, and climbed the six flights of stairs to my apartment in her high heels. There was no elevator.

Her brows drew together when she crossed the threshold, taking in the mildewed walls and rusted pipes. "It's been half a year, and you're still living in a place like this?"

"I've given her my payroll card. Where else can I live?"

Without another word, she walked straight to my computer, sat down, and adeptly pulled up the mirrored data from Scarlett's phone. As she looked at the screen, her expression darkened.

There were chat histories, bank transfer screenshots, and offshore accounts that Zachary had opened under Scarlett's identity.

"These are enough." Sabrina closed my laptop and spun the chair around to face me.

Only a single table lamp was on in the living room. Sitting in the shadows, she looked at me. "James, do you hate him?"

"With a passion."

"To what extent?"

"Enough to stomach all this degradation for half a year."

Sabrina stared at me for what felt like an eternity, then rose from her seat and closed the distance between us. Her fingertips trailed down from my collar and came to a rest at my collarbone.

"Hang in there for a few more days. Give it a week, tops, and his entire fraudulent invoicing operation on the southern city's redevelopment project will come to light. When that time comes, the FBI will step in."

Her fingernail left a red mark on my skin. "However, I need you to do one last thing."

"What is it?"

"He'll definitely look for a scapegoat, and you're his best option. He'll force you to sign a confession. I want you to let him force your hand. Make sure all the evidence is captured and preserved at that exact moment."

"And then?"

"Then I'll lead my men in, kick down the door, and catch him red-handed."

I fell silent for a few seconds. "What if he pulls a knife on me?"

Sabrina lowered her head and chuckled. Then she pulled a metal box from her trench coat pocket and opened it. It contained a tracking chip and a communications earpiece.

"Do you honestly think I'd let my own man go in there as cannon fodder?" She slipped the earpiece into my ear and pinched my earlobe. "James, if you die at his hands, where am I going to find another weapon as useful as you?"

…

Three days later, IRS agents suddenly raided the company and seized all the hard drives in the finance department.

That same day, the FBI's White-Collar Crime Division sent Zachary a formal notice requesting his assistance with their investigation.

The amount involved totaled a staggering 17 million dollars. The charges included fraudulent tax filings and tax evasion.

Zachary locked himself in his office for an entire day with the curtains drawn.

At 6:00 pm, Christopher sought me out. "Mr. Trent wants to see you."

I followed him into the elevator.

When we reached the 26th floor, he turned a corner and led me into a dressing room behind the executive office. The room was small and windowless, with nothing but a single ceiling light.

Zachary sat on a folding chair, his tie askew and his eyes bloodshot. Scarlett stood behind him, clutching a document.

"Close the door," Zachary rasped out. Christopher locked the door behind me.

Zachary gazed at me before pulling out a silver utility knife from his pocket. With a sharp click, he flicked the blade out and slammed it onto the table in front of him.

"James, you've been working under me for three years, so you're practically family. Now that the company's in a tight spot, I need someone to step up and take the fall. You're the project lead, and you handled all the sign-offs and final inspections.

"I want you to go to the FBI and tell them you acted alone and that the company had nothing to do with it."

He pointed at the document in Scarlett's hands. "I've already drafted your confession. You'll be sentenced to three to five years at most. Once you're released, I'll give you a million dollars to get back on your feet. Then, you'll never have to worry about money for the rest of your life."

He'd stolen 17 million dollars, and he thought he could buy someone's life with a million dollars.

I looked at the confession. My name—James Harrison—was already printed in the signature field, with spaces marked for the date and my fingerprint beside it.