My Wife Of 26 Years Framed Me To Die In Prison. I Found Her Secret Stash In Our Basement And Realized She’s Working With A Serial Conman. Now, I’m Planning A Date Night She’ll Never Forget. How Should I Execute My Revenge?

The coffee felt too bright. I imagined Albert Mitchell alone in a cell, wondering why his daughter betrayed him.

“Did Damian contact you afterward?”

I asked.

“Once,”

She said.

“Two weeks after the funeral. Offered condolences, then asked if I wanted to consult on future cases. Said he needed someone with my legal background.”

“What did you do?”

“I hung up. Then I started digging.”

Her voice hardened.

“Three years. I found Matthew Prescott in Philadelphia. Traces of cases in Chicago and Seattle. Everything buried under sealed records and NDAs. Damian pays well to erase himself.”

“You couldn’t go to the police with what…?”

She asked.

“Circumstantial patterns. No smoking gun. He’s careful.”

“Except he wasn’t,”

I thought.

“He left Marlo. He left evidence. He underestimated a father.”

“Mr. Whitfield,”

Sloan said, leaning forward.

“If you want to stop him, you can’t start with the police. He’ll flip the narrative. He’ll make you look guilty. He’ll destroy your daughter. You need to expose him publicly.”

“How?”

“Before he can run. Before he can lie.”

She slid a folder across the table.

“This is everything I have. Timelines, photos, court records, victim names. It won’t convict him, but it will force questions.”

I opened it. Faces stared back.

Ordinary families destroyed.

“There’s more,”

She said.

“My mother is willing to testify. Susan Mitchell knows what Damian did. She helped him. She wants to make it right. And Susan Prescott. She’s in. Three families. Together we can bury him.”

My phone buzzed. A message from Marlo: “Dad, I’m ready to talk. Tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. Mom will be at work. Come alone.”

I showed Sloan. Her expression tightened.

“Be careful. Damian could be using her. He might be there.”

“I know,”

I said.

“But she’s my daughter.”

“Then don’t truly go alone,”

She said.

“Have someone nearby. Record everything.”

I nodded.

“What happens after you bring her to us…?”

Sloan said.

“And then we end this together.”

She stood and held out her hand.

“Just say when.”

I shook it.

“Thank you.”

“Thank me when he’s in prison.”

She walked out, back straight, shoulders squared. I sat alone with cold coffee and Marlo’s message glowing on my phone.

Tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. Come alone.

Standing on my own front porch felt like trespassing. I’d lived in this house for 26 years.

Painted these walls. Fixed that loose step on the third stair.

Planted the rosebushes Margot loved along the walkway. But now, with my key hovering over the lock, it felt like enemy territory.

I glanced down the street. Vernon sat in his truck two blocks away, engine running, phone in hand.

If anything went wrong, he’d be here in seconds. Silas was monitoring remotely, watching for any digital activity from Damian.

I wasn’t as alone as Marlo thought. I turned the key and stepped inside.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Margot’s car was gone. She’d left for work an hour ago, right on schedule.

The morning sunlight slanted through the living room windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. Everything looked normal.

Safe. Like the home I remembered.

But I knew better now.

“Dad?”

Marlo appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore sweatpants and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

No makeup. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy from crying.

She looked so young. So scared.

“Marlo.”

My voice came out rough. She descended the stairs slowly, gripping the banister like she might fall.

When she reached the bottom, she stopped three feet away, her arms wrapped around herself.

“I’m sorry,”

She whispered.