Just 11 minutes after I returned from the hospital with a shattered femur, my mother-in-law kicked my crutches away. Ignoring my agonized screams, she and my husband dragged me into a pitch-black garage.
“Before I married the man upstairs,” I said, staring at the flash drive in my hand, “I audited municipal fraud cases for his unit. He knows who I am. He’s been building a case around Caleb’s shell companies for months.”
The dispatcher’s tone changed immediately.
“Understood, Ms. Whitaker. I’m routing this directly to Detective Hale.”
