Chapter 4

Before I drove away from the studio for the last time, I pulled over a block away.

Took out my burner phone.

A quick search found the California Bureau of Automotive Repair's anonymous tip line.

"Yes, I'd like to report a vehicle," I said, my voice disguised, low and gravelly. "A red Porsche 911. License plate..." I recited it from memory.

"It's regularly parked in the vicinity of [Studio Address]. I've seen the owner, a young guy, bragging about some... let's call them 'performance enhancements.' Sounded highly illegal. Unsafe, too. Flashing lights underneath, some kind of nitrous setup he was showing off. You know the type."

Caleb had indeed been blabbing about adding underglow LEDs and some cheap, dubious engine chip he'd bought online. He thought it made him look cool. It just made him look like an idiot with too much access to Sophia's Amex.

"Thank you for the information, sir. We'll look into it."

I hung up, a grim satisfaction settling in.

Let Caleb explain that to the authorities. And let Sophia deal with the impound fees and the potential fines.

My lawyer, a shark named Helen, had the divorce papers ready by noon.

"She's not contesting?" Helen raised an eyebrow, looking over the signed agreement Sophia's lawyer had couriered over. "No claim on your premarital assets, no alimony demand? Just a clean break?"

"Seems she's confident in her... future prospects," I said.

"Her loss," Helen muttered, stamping the documents. "You're free, Mike."

Free.

It felt... lighter.

I drove to the townhouse. Our townhouse. Well, mostly mine. I'd put down the seventy percent deposit from funds I had before we even met. Covered the bulk of the mortgage payments too, from my old tech investments, not the studio's meager profits.

Sophia was supposed to be out, meeting with "investors." Probably Caleb, investing his tongue down her throat.

I just wanted to grab a few last personal items, tell her parents – if they were there – that the house was going on the market.