Chapter 5
Victor Shen is smaller than his voice suggested.
Five-six, maybe five-seven, in a navy suit that fits too well to be off-the-rack.
He's already seated when I arrive — leather armchair in the back corner of the coffee shop, facing the door.
An espresso in front of him, already half-gone.
A man who arrives early and watches who comes after.
"Ms. Gallagher." He stands. Firm handshake — dry palm, short grip. Eye contact that doesn't blink. "Thank you for coming."
"The consulting fees."
His mouth does something — not a smile. A registration. "You found it faster than I expected."
"How long did it take you?"
"Three months." He picks up his espresso. Drinks the rest in one swallow. "Three months of looking at a line item that felt wrong and not acting on it because I didn't want to be the investor who panics over a $47,000 consulting fee. Then I ran the registration search."
"And found nothing."
"And found nothing." He sets the cup down. Pulls a leather portfolio from his bag. Inside: printed spreadsheets. I can read them upside down — he's identified the Marin Voss Associates payments, flagged the lack of deliverables, noted the absence of corporate registration.
He's missed Horizon Strategic Partners entirely.
I don't tell him that yet. Information is leverage. You don't spend it in the first meeting.
"Why me?" I ask. "You could have gone to the SEC. Filed directly."
"Because the SEC takes eighteen months and doesn't give a shit about my $400,000 specifically.
" He flags the server. Orders another espresso.
"And because I Googled your husband's last name and found a forensic accountant who specializes in exactly this kind of fraud.
Married to the CEO." He looks at me. No apology in it. "I assumed you'd want to know."
"You assumed I'd be useful."
"Both." He doesn't flinch. That's something — most people flinch when you name what they're doing. Victor Shen just adjusts the napkin under his cup. "I have a fiduciary interest in my investment. You have a personal interest in your marriage. Our interests align. For now."
"For now."
"Interests shift. People find out their husband is complicit and suddenly they're protecting him instead of investigating.
I've seen it." His new espresso arrives.
He wraps one hand around it but doesn't drink.
"So I'll ask directly: if this leads to your husband, will you still bring me the truth? "
I should lie. Say yes without hesitation. The professional answer. The clean answer.
"I don't know," I say instead. "I don't know what this leads to yet."
He nods. Slowly. Like I passed a test by not passing it.
"That's more honest than I expected." He reaches into the portfolio again. Pulls out a single sheet. "Here's what convinced me to send the email."
It's a copy of Nate's investor update from April 18th. One line highlighted:
Consulting partnerships: We've engaged two strategic advisory firms to support our go-to-market expansion. Combined quarterly investment: $65,600. Early results are promising.
Two firms. Combined $65,600. That's $47,200 plus $18,400. He disclosed both. In writing. To seven investors.
"He told you about them," I say.
"He told us about them. Voluntarily. With amounts." Victor watches my face with the patience of a man used to reading rooms. "A smart criminal doesn't put the phantom vendors in the investor letter. He hides them. Rounds them. Buries them in overhead."
"So either he's stupid—"
"Or he doesn't know they're fake." Victor picks up his espresso. Finally drinks. "I have a daughter. Twenty-two. First job in private equity. If someone was doing this to her company — I'd want someone to tell her before the SEC did."
That's the hook. The thing designed to make me trust him. The daughter. The paternal concern. Maybe it's real. Maybe it's the emotional equivalent of a fake invoice — something that looks legitimate but exists only to move me where he needs me to go.
I take it anyway. Because the data is the data regardless of his motives.
"Twelve days," I say.
"Ten."
"Twelve. I need to trace the second entity."
His eyebrows lift. A fraction. "There's a second entity."
"Twelve days, Victor. Then you'll have everything."
He puts down his cup. Studies me for a long moment. I let him look. I have nothing to hide from this man — not yet.
"Twelve days," he says. "Then I file. Whether you're ready or not."
We don't shake hands when we leave. We just stand and walk in opposite directions — him toward a black car waiting at the curb, me toward the fourteen blocks between here and the office. Between this version of my life and whatever version exists twelve days from now.
My phone buzzes. Nate.
Late tonight — client dinner in Brooklyn. Don't wait up. Love you.
I open Find My. The thing we set up two years ago when I got mugged — both of us sharing locations, all the time. I've never once checked his. Not in two years.
His blue dot: Gallagher Builds, 23rd and Park.
Marin's blue dot — visible through our group thread from the Catskills trip last fall: same building. Same floor.
Twenty feet apart. Right now.
I close the app. Walk faster.
Twelve days. Two questions.
Is my husband a thief or a fool?
And is my best friend a lover or a con artist?
The money will tell me. It always does.