Chapter 4 - Twenty Minutes to Leave
The sheriff's deputy arrived twelve minutes later.
That was when the weekend reunion officially stopped pretending to be a misunderstanding.
The remaining relatives stood beside their cars while statements were taken.
I hated every second.
Not because I regretted calling anyone.
Because these people had children with them.
Because some genuinely believed Ryan had permission.
Because a place I had built for peace now looked like the scene of a crime investigation.
I kept reminding myself of one thing:
I had not created this situation.
I was simply refusing to hide it.
The deputy, a woman named Sandra Cole, listened while Laura explained the ownership situation.
Then the Army officer explained the missing accountable item.
Deputy Cole looked at me.
“Do you believe your brother-in-law intentionally took it?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you believe he has it?”
“I don't know that either.”
She nodded.
Good cops don't fill empty spaces with assumptions.
They document.
The property manager arrived with access logs.
He was carrying a tablet.
“Colonel, we found something.”
He showed me the keypad history.
My authorized code hadn't been used in weeks.
Instead, several temporary codes had been created remotely.
“Can you tell where?”
“We're checking.”
“How many?”
“Nine.”
My stomach sank.
“Nine separate access codes?”
“Yes.”
Laura looked at him.
“Over what period?”
“Four months.”
That matched Mark's story.
Someone had been operating my home like an unofficial vacation rental.
Deputy Cole photographed the broken lock.
The damaged security panel.
The cabinet.
The fragment from my bedroom.
Then she gave the remaining guests twenty minutes to gather belongings.
Most left quietly.
A few apologized.
One older woman stopped beside me.
“I thought Ryan owned half of it.”
“He doesn't.”
“He told us you owed him.”
That caught me.
“Owed him what?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know. He said he'd invested in the place.”
I added that to the growing pile of lies.
By sunset, the house was empty.
Almost.
Jessica had left behind a suitcase.
I stood in the guest bedroom staring at it.
Her clothes were inside.
Toiletries.
Medication.
A book.
Which meant she had planned to stay several days.
She hadn't made a last-minute mistake.
She had known.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time all day, there was silence.
Then my phone rang.
Jessica.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Is Ryan with you?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you have the case?”
“No.”
“Jessica.”
“I swear.”
Her voice broke.
“He told me you had given him permission to use the house while you were gone.”
“You knew that wasn't true.”
“I knew you hadn't told me.”
“Exactly.”
“But he said you'd said yes before.”
“I have never authorized him to rent my home.”
“I didn't know about the money.”
That part, I believed.
Then she said something unexpected.
“Emily, he's been different lately.”
“How?”
“Secretive.”
“That doesn't narrow it down.”
“He lost his job three months ago.”
I stood.
“What?”
Ryan had told everyone he was consulting independently.
Jessica continued.
“He didn't want anyone to know.”
“Does he have income?”
“He said yes.”
“From what?”
“I don't know.”
The lake house.
My mind moved through the numbers.
If he had rented the place multiple weekends…
“How far behind are you?”
Jessica was silent.
“Mortgage?”
“Two months.”
“Credit cards?”
Silence.
“Jessica.”
“Twenty-seven thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
“And he didn't tell you how he was covering expenses?”
“He said investments.”
There it was.
A man with no job.
Household debt.
Unauthorized rental income.
And government equipment missing from a case he had opened.
Maybe coincidence.
Maybe not.
“Where did Ryan go?”
“I don't know.”
Then someone knocked on my front door.
I looked through the window.
Mark.
Ryan's cousin.
He stood alone holding a laptop bag.
“I have to go,” I told Jessica.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“Please don't destroy him.”
I looked through the glass.
“I haven't done anything to Ryan.”
Then I opened the door.
Mark stepped inside.
“I remembered something.”
He placed the laptop on my table.
“Ryan gave this to me last month.”
“What is it?”
“He wanted me to help him build a website.”
“For what?”
Mark opened the computer.
A webpage appeared.
Beautiful lake.
Wooden dock.
Stone fireplace.
My house.
Across the top were the words:
PRIVATE EXECUTIVE LAKE RETREAT.
Below it:
$1,200 PER NIGHT.
I stared at the screen.
Then Mark clicked a folder containing booking records.
Ryan hadn't rented my house four times.
He had rented it twenty-seven times.
May you like
And one reservation was scheduled for the following morning.
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