My grandfather had made sure of that.
A general didn’t leave loose ends.
My heartbeat steadied.
Upstairs, I heard movement and laughter.
They thought this house belonged to them.
They thought I was the one who no longer belonged.
I looked at the deed and smiled.
Barely.
They had no idea what they had done.
I kept the folder beside me and pulled my laptop from my duffel.
If they wanted to play house, I was going to check the rest of my life.
The laptop screen lit the concrete floor.
I connected to the Wi-Fi.
Same password.
Of course.
Nothing in this house changed unless it benefited Chloe.
I logged into my military banking portal.
Before the dashboard even finished loading, something felt wrong.
Experience teaches you not to ignore that feeling.
Then the balance appeared.
Wrong.
Not slightly off.
Wrong.
Hazardous-duty pay gone.
Deployment bonuses gone.
Not pending.
Not delayed.
Gone.
“Okay,” I muttered.
No panic.
Assessment.
I opened the transaction history.
Multiple transfers.
Clean.
Structured.
Whoever had done this knew when I was deployed, when communication was unreliable, and when I had almost no oversight.
I opened the first large withdrawal.
Domestic wire.
Then another.
Then another.
Different amounts.
Same pattern.
I pulled out a notebook and recorded dates, transaction numbers, and amounts.
This wasn’t emotional anymore.
It was a problem.
Problems could be documented.
I traced the destination accounts until one connected to Evelyn.
I checked twice.
Same routing number.
Same bank.
Same name.
“Of course,” I whispered. “Of course, it was her.”
Then I checked login records.
Every login leaves a footprint.
There were account accesses from my home while I was halfway around the world.
Same device signature.
Same location.
No attempt to hide it.
They had simply assumed I would never check.
