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?
Vernon’s expression hardened.
“Graham, Silas pulled me out of a burning engine room in the Persian Gulf. If I trust anyone, it’s him.”
I nodded, hands shaking around my cup. Silas Crane arrived at eight sharp.
Shorter than I’d expected, maybe 5’9, with a wiry build and sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Salt and pepper hair, military short.
Gray hoodie over a black T-shirt. He carried a laptop bag.
Vernon stood, clasped his hand.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Always.”
Silas’s voice was quiet, controlled. He slid in next to Vernon, his eyes assessing me quickly.
“You must be Graham. Thanks for the short notice. Vernon says you’re in trouble.”
He pulled out a sleek laptop, opened it.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
I pulled out my phone, swiped to Griffin’s photo. Damian standing next to Margot in my basement. That confident smile.
“This is the guy,”
I said, sliding the phone across.
“Damian Cross or Daniel Crowley. Maybe something else. I need to know who he really is.”
Silas studied the image, nodded.
“Give me 10 minutes.”
He connected a device to his laptop and transferred the photo. His fingers flew across the keyboard.
Programs I’d never seen. Windows filled with code and databases.
Vernon leaned back, sipping coffee.
“Silas did this for Naval Intelligence. If there’s a trail, he’ll find it.”
Ten minutes. Silas didn’t speak, just typed, clicked, cross-referenced. Finally, he exhaled and turned the screen toward me.
“Here’s what I’ve got.”
A grid of photos filled the screen. Six different men, same face, different names. Silas pointed.
“This is your guy. Real name: Damian Cross. Born Newark, 1983. But he’s used aliases for over a decade.”
He clicked through.
“Daniel Crowley, Boston. David Preston, Philadelphia. Derek Morgan, Chicago. Dominic Hayes, Seattle. Cameron West, Miami.”
I stared. Six names.
“At least. Could be more.”
He pulled up articles, court records.
“He targets wealthy professionals in divorces or financial stress. Works with the wives, plants evidence, frames the husbands for embezzlement, fraud, money laundering. Then splits the assets after conviction.”
My throat tightened.
“How many victims?”
Silas hesitated.
“Confirmed two. Albert Mitchell, Boston, 2018. Architect, convicted of embezzling 200,000, died in prison, 2020. Heart attack.”
He pulled up another article.
“Matthew Prescott, Philadelphia, 2021. Real estate developer. Money laundering conviction. Died 2023. Also heart attack.”
Vernon swore. I felt ice in my veins.
“Albert Mitchell’s daughter, she thinks it wasn’t natural.”
Silas nodded.
“Sloan Mitchell. Lawyer, lost her license for two years. Damian forced her to testify against her father, threatened to expose her own embezzlement. She’s been trying to expose him since, but no proof. He’s too careful. The other cases—Chicago, Seattle, Miami—similar patterns, but records are sealed, NDAs. Somebody’s paying to bury this.”
I gripped the table.
“Six men. How many still alive?”
Silas’s expression darkened.
“Two. And one is you.”
The diner felt too bright, too small. I wanted to run, scream, drive home and confront Margot, but I forced calm.
“What do I do?”
Silas closed the laptop.
“If you go to police now, they’ll arrest you. Damian’s already planted enough evidence. You need proof he set you up, and the only way is to get ahead of him.”
“How?”
“I need access to your home network. If Damian and your wife communicated, it’s through email, text, encrypted apps. I can pull their messages, files, call logs, but I need in without them knowing.”
“How do you do that?”
Silas smiled faintly.
“Remote access. I’ll install monitoring software on your router. Runs invisible in the background. I’ll see everything: every email, file transfer, website visit.”
Vernon leaned forward.
“How long?”
“Set up, an hour. Pulling useful data, days to weeks, depending how careful they’ve been.”
I thought of Margot at home, thinking I was oblivious. Damian planning his next move.
“How do I give you access?”
Silas pulled a small USB drive from his pocket, slid it across.
“Go home. Plug this into your router. It installs automatically. Then leave. Don’t stay. Don’t talk to your wife. Just go.”
