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?

Quiet, broken sobs. I felt nothing.

Or maybe I felt everything. I couldn’t tell anymore.

Damian stopped in the doorway. Officer Foster had a hand on his shoulder, but Damian turned his head, looked back at me.

His face was calm again. Too calm.

“You think this is over?”

He said, his voice was quiet, cold.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

I stepped forward, stood in the middle of the living room, camera still running, live stream still broadcasting.

“Neither do you,”

I said. Damian’s jaw tightened for a second.

I thought he might say something else, but he didn’t. Officer Foster guided him out the door.

Down the front steps into the back of a patrol car. Margot followed a moment later, head down, shoulders shaking.

The door slammed shut. The red and blue lights painted the street in sharp, flickering waves.

And then the cars pulled away. Kelsey stayed behind.

She looked at the laptop.

“M, Mr. Whitfield,”

She said.

“I’m going to need copies of everything. The videos, the audio files, the documents. All of it.”

“You’ll have it,”

I said.

“Silas has been documenting everything.”

She nodded.

“Good. We’ll also need statements from you, your daughter, and anyone else involved.”

“We’ll cooperate fully.”

Kelsey glanced at the live stream one more time. The viewer count had climbed to 18,000.

She exhaled slowly.

“This is going to be a long night,”

She said. I nodded.

“Yeah, it is.”

After Kelsey left, Vernon walked over, clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“You did it,”

He said. I looked at the screen.

At the split windows showing Sloan Mitchell, Susan Mitchell, Susan Prescott. All three were still there, watching.

Sloan gave a small wave. I waved back.

Then Silas, off camera, reached over and clicked the mouse. The screen went black.

Live stream ended. Final viewer count: 18,427.

The house was quiet. Marlo stood in the kitchen doorway.

She looked at me, eyes red, face pale. And she said softly,

“I’m sorry.”

I walked over, pulled her into a hug. She broke down, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself cry too.

Three weeks later, we were back at the precinct. Graham and Marlo sat across from Detective Kelsey Grant in a small conference room.

The walls were beige. The table was scratched.

There was a clock on the wall that ticked too loudly. Kelsey dropped a thick file folder onto the table.

“Mr. Whitfield,”

She said.

“You’re a very lucky man. You’re still alive.”

I looked at the folder. It had to be two inches thick.

“We’ve been digging into Damian Cross,”

Kelsey continued.

“And what we found… it’s worse than we thought.”

Marlo shifted in her chair. Her hands were folded tight in her lap.

“How much worse?”

I asked. Kelsey opened the file.

“Damian didn’t do this twice. He did it four times.”

She pulled out a photo. A middle-aged man smiling, standing in front of a house.

“James Hartman. Chicago, 2016. He was an architect. Married, one daughter, also a lawyer. Damian used the same playbook. Seduced the wife, planted evidence, framed Hartman for embezzlement.”

She slid the photo across the table.

“The Hartman was convicted. Sentenced to eight years. He died of a stroke in prison after 18 months.”

Another photo.

“David Wells. Seattle, 2017. Real estate developer. Same pattern. Wife, daughter, fake evidence. David died of a heart attack in his cell before we even knew Damian existed.”

Kelsey looked at me.

“Albert Mitchell was victim number three. Matthew Prescott was number four. You, Mr. Whitfield, were supposed to be number five.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Marlo’s voice came out small.

“How many families did he destroy?”

Kelsey closed the file.

“At least four that we know of. Could be more. We’re still looking.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“What about Margot?”

Kelsey’s expression didn’t change.

“Uh, she’s cooperating. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“She’s claiming Damian manipulated her. That he promised her a fresh start after you were arrested. That she didn’t know how far things would go.”

Kelsey pulled out another document.

“Bank statements. But the records tell a different story. Your wife transferred $62,000 to an offshore account in Damian’s name. She did it seven months ago. Long before you found out about any of this.”

She tapped the page.

“But Mrs. Whitfield wasn’t a victim, Mr. Whitfield. She was an accomplice from the beginning.”

I stared at the numbers on the page. $62,000.

Seven months ago. We’d been married for 26 years, and she’d been planning this for at least seven months.

Marlo’s voice broke the silence.

“What’s going to happen to her?”

Kelsey looked at her.

“She’s facing charges for conspiracy, fraud, and evidence tampering. If convicted, she’s looking at 5 to 10 years. And Damian? 15 to 25. Maybe more, depending on what else we uncover.”

Marlo nodded slowly. Then she asked the question I knew she’d been afraid to ask.

“What about me?”

Kelsey’s expression softened just a little.

“You cooperated. You provided critical evidence. You testified. Because of that, the DA is recommending probation instead of jail time.”

Marlo exhaled.

“Probation?”

“Supervised. Probably two years. You’ll have restrictions, but you won’t go to prison.”

Marlo’s eyes filled with tears, but this time they weren’t tears of fear. They were relief.

“Thank you,”

She whispered. Kelsey nodded.

“Don’t thank me. Thank your father. He’s the one who fought for you.”