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He opened it page by page. Bank transfers. Email logs. Access reports. Legal summaries. A chain of evidence that once felt undeniable.
Now every page asked a new question.
Why had everything been so clean?
Why had every answer arrived too quickly?
Why had the people who disliked Naira been the first to explain her guilt?
He opened his old phone archive and searched Naira’s name.
The last message he remembered from her was cold and short.
I need space. Don’t contact me.
He had believed that message for years.
But now he stared at it with a strange feeling in his chest.
Naira never wrote like that.
Even in anger, she wrote with feeling.
He called his head of security.
“Pull every communication record connected to my personal line from the month Naira left.”
The man sounded half asleep. “Sir, that was three years ago.”
“Then wake the archive team.”
“Yes, sir.”
Next, Caspian called Maddox Reigns, a private investigator and former federal analyst. The only man Caspian trusted to find what money usually buried.
Maddox answered on the fourth ring. “This better involve a corpse or a senator.”
“It involves my ex-wife.”
A pause.
Then Maddox said, “Send me everything.”
By sunrise, Caspian had not slept. His office floor was covered in printed records. His tie hung loose. His eyes were red.
At 7:13, the first report arrived.
Blocked call logs.
Caspian read the names slowly.
Naira Bellamy.
Marisol Greer.
Unknown number from a women’s clinic.
Naira Bellamy again.
Again.
Again.