Chapter 3 - The Laptop Dustin Wanted BackMarcy looked smaller in the hospital bed than she had as a child.
There was bruising near her temple.
A split at the corner of her lip.
Her ribs were wrapped only for comfort; the doctors didn’t want tight binding affecting her breathing.
When she saw me, she started crying.
Not because she was glad.
Because she knew where I had been.
“You went there.”
“I did.”
“Dad.”
“I didn’t beat him.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
She tried sitting up and winced.
Karen adjusted her pillow.
“Easy.”
Marcy looked between us.
“Where’s my laptop?”
“At your apartment?”
“No.”
Her breathing accelerated.
“I had it in my car.”
Police had already secured her vehicle from the parking lot outside a pharmacy where a passerby found her injured and disoriented.
“No laptop was listed in her property,” Karen said.
Marcy shut her eyes.
“Oh God.”
“What’s on it?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Marcy.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Dustin beat you badly enough to put you here.”
“I know.”
“Then whatever you think you’re protecting is already hurting you.”
She stared at me.
“He didn’t hit me because I wanted to leave.”
That sentence rearranged everything.
“Why did he?”
She whispered:
“Because I copied something.”
Karen and I exchanged a look.
Marcy had worked as a bookkeeper for one of Victor Hale’s restaurant companies for nine months. Dustin got her the job.
She handled vendor invoices.
Payroll reconciliation.
Expense accounts.
At first, it seemed ordinary.
Then she noticed businesses billing each other in loops.
Security company invoices to restaurants.
Restaurants reimbursing gyms.
Cash deposits that didn’t match sales.
She became suspicious.
“Money laundering?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Then what did you copy?”
“Payment ledgers. Vendor lists. Some emails.”
Karen stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because one of the invoices had Dustin’s name attached to a payment from a company that doesn’t exist.”
Marcy had downloaded files onto an encrypted partition.
Then, two days earlier, Dustin saw a spreadsheet open on her screen.
He demanded the laptop.
She refused.
“He told me Uncle Victor would think I was stealing.”
“Were you?”
“Documents. Yes.”
She looked ashamed.
“I thought if I had proof, I could leave safely.”
That made terrible sense.
Evidence as insurance.
Except insurance becomes dangerous when the people you’re insuring yourself against discover it exists.
“What happened yesterday?”
Marcy’s eyes filled.
“Dustin kept asking where I backed it up.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No.”
“He hit you?”
She nodded.
Then:
“He kept saying, ‘Where’s the second copy?’”
I leaned forward.
“There is a second copy?”
Marcy looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She swallowed.
“I mailed it.”
“To whom?”
She did not answer immediately.
Then:
“A federal investigator.”
Karen sat back.
The room went silent.
May you like
The laptop wasn’t protection anymore.
It was evidence in a case we did not even know existed.
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