At 8:05, Ethan appeared on the sidewalk like he owned it, wearing the “lucky” suit I’d helped him choose, hair perfect, smile polished—this charming expression that used to soften my heart and now made my stomach twist—and he walked through those revolving doors and headed straight to the international transfers counter, leaning in to speak with that urgent confidence I already recognized, Cayman account, urgent transfer, while I watched through the glass feeling strangely steady.
Before the teller could do more than nod, the bank doors opened again and four officers stepped inside, not rushing, not panicking, walking with that quiet certainty of people who already know the ending. An officer approached him calmly. “Ethan Hale?” the officer asked.
His smile faltered, confusion blinking across his face like he thought this was a misunderstanding he could charm away. “Yes?”
“Sir,” the officer said evenly, “you are under arrest for attempted aggravated fraud and conspiracy.”