Put everything back. Leave no trace. Lock the office. Return the key. Become invisible again.
By the time Lysander returned, I stood at the stove stirring pasta sauce like a model wife.
“How was your day, darling?” I asked with a sweet smile.
“Great,” he said easily. “Signed a contract for a new facility.”
The lie flowed like water, and I nodded, because I had learned the most dangerous skill of all: acting harmless.
The next day I called Sariah.
We used to be close before I resigned, before my world shrank to Buckhead walls. The shame of reaching out after years sat in my throat like a stone.
Sariah answered, surprised. “Well, look who finally remembered us.”
“Sariah,” I said, voice steady, “I need help. Can we meet somewhere not downtown?”
We met in a cozy coffee shop in Decatur where St. James people didn’t roam. Sariah looked like a woman who owned her life—confident, sharp, free. I felt like a ghost in a plain sweater.
She studied the photos on my phone, and her expression darkened with every swipe.
She ordered one coffee, then another.
Finally she looked up, eyes wide. “Aziza… this isn’t just cheating.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“No,” she said, voice firm. “You don’t. This looks like a sophisticated laundering structure through real estate. The flows, the shells, the transfers… your husband is playing with things that don’t forgive mistakes.”
My stomach tightened. “What do I do?”
Sariah exhaled. “You go to authorities before it gets worse. I have a contact in Economic Crimes. Detective Moses Stone. He’s principled—rare. If you want, I’ll give you his number.”
She wrote it down. I held that slip of paper like it was both a weapon and a lifeline the entire drive home.
Calling Detective Stone was harder than breaking into Lysander’s office. I dialed and hung up ten times before I forced myself to let it ring.
“Stone speaking,” a calm voice answered.
“Detective Stone,” I said, “my name is Aziza St. James. I have information about possible financial crimes tied to St. James Development.”
A pause. Then: “Can you come in today? Downtown precinct. Office 312. One hour.”
The precinct smelled like stale coffee and copier toner. Detective Stone was in his late forties, steady-eyed, kind-faced, with family photos on his desk and a plant that looked loved.
“Talk to me, Mrs. St. James,” he said. “I’m listening.”
So I told him everything: the control, the isolation, the mistress, the documents. I showed him the photos, watching his brow tighten, his focus sharpen.
“This is serious,” he said finally. “Very serious.”
“How serious?” My voice barely worked.
He held my gaze. “If what you’re showing me holds up, he’s facing federal exposure. Double digits.”
The number hit me like cold water.
