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?
Daniel Crowley. I typed the name into Google.
A few old LinkedIn profiles. A mention in a Philadelphia news article from 2021 about another fraud case.
This time involving a real estate developer named Matthew Prescott. Same pattern.
Embezzlement, offshore accounts, a wife filing for divorce, and the same name buried in the footnotes: Daniel Crowley, financial consultant. My chest tightened.
Two men. Two fraud cases.
Two wives who’d filed for divorce. And the same consultant, Daniel Crowley, involved in both.
Damian Cross. Daniel Crowley.
Different names, same face. I grabbed my phone and dialed Vernon Mills.
Vernon had been my best friend since college. We’d lost touch for a few years after graduation, but when I’d moved to Brooklyn and started my firm, Vernon had shown up at my office one day with a toolbox and a grin, saying he’d heard I needed an electrician.
We’d been close ever since. Weekend barbecues, playoff games.
The kind of friendship where you didn’t have to explain yourself. If there was anyone I could trust right now, it was Vernon.
He answered on the third ring, voice groggy.
“Graham? It’s midnight. What’s wrong?”
“Vernon, I need your help. Something’s happened.”
A pause, then alert now.
“Where are you?”
“Queens. The Skyline Motor Inn, room 24.”
“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”
The Hacker and the Hunt
Vernon arrived at 12:50 a.m., knocking twice on the door before I let him in. He was wearing sweatpants and a Mets hoodie, his gray hair sticking up in every direction, but his eyes were sharp, focused.
“Talk to me,”
He said, shutting the door behind him. So I did.
I told him everything. Marlo’s coldness, Griffin’s call, the evidence in the basement, the photos, the offshore accounts.
I showed him the pictures on my laptop. I told him about Damian Cross, about Daniel Crowley, about the two men who’d gone to prison and died there.
Vernon listened without interrupting. When I finished, he sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Jesus, Graham.”
“Yeah.”
“You need to call the police.”
“And say what?”
I turned the laptop toward him, showing him the photo of the duffel bag full of cash.
“That I found $150,000 in my own basement? That there are forged documents with my signature all over them? They’ll think I did it. They’ll think I’m trying to cover my tracks.”
Vernon frowned.
“But Griffin saw them planting the evidence.”
“Griffin’s word against Margot’s, and she’ll have Damian or Daniel or whatever his name is backing her up. He’s done this before, Vernon. Twice that I can find. Both times the husband went to prison. Both times the husband died.”
Vernon’s face went pale.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying if we go to the cops now, I’m finished. I need real evidence. Something that proves Damian set this up. Something that proves Margot was in on it from the beginning.”
“How do you get that?”
I stared at the photo of Damian on my screen. That confident smile, those dead eyes.
“I don’t know,”
I admitted.
“But I have to figure it out fast. If they think I’m on to them, they’ll accelerate the plan and I’ll end up like Albert Mitchell and Matthew Prescott.”
Vernon stood up, pacing the small room. Then he stopped, turned to me.
“You said Griffin took a photo of this Damian guy, right?”
I nodded.
“Then we start there. I know someone who can help. A buddy of mine from my Navy days. Tech guy. He’s done security work, private investigations, that kind of thing. If anyone can dig up dirt on Damian Cross or Daniel Crowley or whoever the hell he is, it’s Silas.”
“Silas?”
“Silas Crane. Best hacker I’ve ever met. If this guy’s got a digital footprint, Silas will find it.”
I felt a flicker of hope.
“Can you call him?”
“It’s 1:00 in the morning.”
“Vernon, my wife is trying to frame me for a crime I didn’t commit. Please.”
Vernon pulled out his phone.
“Yeah, okay. Let me see what I can do.”
I hadn’t slept by the time dawn broke through the motel curtains. I’d replayed everything a hundred times.
The evidence in my basement. Margot’s smile in that photo.
The offshore accounts with my name on them. Vernon had texted at 6:30: “Silas can meet 8:00 a.m. I’ll pick you up now.”
I sat in a back booth of a run-down Queens diner, nursing burnt coffee and trying not to look as paranoid as I felt. The place was nearly empty, just a construction crew at the counter and an old man with a newspaper.
Vernon slid in across from me, carrying two more coffees.
“He’ll be here in five,”
Vernon said.
“You sure we can trust him?”
