Chapter 3 - The Actuary’s Game
We left Chloe sleeping under the heavy sedation of a prescribed anxiety medication, guarded by a trusted private security contact Julian knew from the bail bonds network.
We headed straight to Julian’s office in downtown Portland—a gritty, disorganized room filled with filing cabinets and heavy oak furniture. Julian threw his keys onto the desk and booted up his main terminal.
"If Vanessa is a professional, she left a trail," Julian said, cracking his knuckles. "But nobody just snaps and stuffs a cleaner in the drywall. This takes planning."
I was an actuary. I made a living analyzing risk, finding anomalies in massive datasets, and calculating the exact probability of human behavior. I sat down at Julian's second monitor. "Give me access to the financial databases. Give me everything you have."
I numbly recited the passwords to our joint accounts, my savings, and my 401k. As the screens loaded, the numbers stared back at us like a cruel joke.
Zero. Overdrawn. Empty.
"She drained it," I whispered. "Three hundred thousand dollars. Gone. When?"
"Yesterday afternoon, right after you boarded your flight to Seattle," Julian confirmed. "She wire-transferred the funds to a shell corporation. But Tommy... look at the passports you found in the box."
Julian had scanned them. He brought up a background check on Vanessa. I had seen her birth certificate when we applied for a marriage license. Vanessa Hayes from Denver. But the screen flashed red.
"Vanessa Hayes died in a car crash in 1998 when she was eight years old," Julian said grimly. "Whoever you've been sleeping next to for the last seven years, whoever birthed your daughter... her name isn't Vanessa. She stole the identity of a dead girl."
The room spun. My entire life, my entire marriage, was a meticulously crafted lie.
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"What about Margaret?" I asked, desperation clawing at my throat. "Her mother? I spoke to her on the phone. She told me Chloe wasn't their concern anymore."
Julian typed furiously. "Margaret Hayes. Also a stolen identity. Tommy, these women are grifters. Black widows. They target men with stable incomes, clean them out, and disappear. Usually, they stage an accident. You were supposed to die in Seattle, Tommy. I guarantee it."
