I almost threw my phone across the room.

Instead, I made coffee.

Then I opened the shared desktop computer in the corner, the one Randy used for gaming and “business ideas.” I had bought it, of course. He had set the password to the name of his Mustang because subtlety had never been his gift.

I logged in to remove his accounts.

That was when I found the folder.

It sat on the desktop inside another folder labeled TAXES, which was already suspicious because Randy had not filed taxes in two years.

The folder name was simple.

PUPPY.

My hands went cold.

Inside were screenshots of my bank transfers. Photos of my driver’s license. Copies of my signature. Draft loan applications. Credit card applications. A scanned lease renewal with my signature copied onto a page I had never seen.

And then I found the video.

It had been recorded two weeks earlier in my living room while I was at work.

Randy sat on my couch with the same four friends from the restaurant. One of them, Kyle, held a beer and laughed while Randy displayed a spreadsheet on the TV.

“She’ll never check,” Randy said in the video. “Sarah pays whatever I put in front of her.”

Someone asked, “What if she finds out?”

Randy grinned.

“She won’t. She’s trained.”

My stomach twisted.

Then came the part that made the room tilt.

Randy leaned forward and said,
“Once the business credit line clears under her name, we cash out, disappear for a bit, and she takes the hit. Worst case, I tell everyone she was obsessed with me and stole from her own company to keep me.”

I stopped breathing.

Her own company.

I rewound the clip.

Played it again.

On the spreadsheet, I recognized names from work.

Vendors.

Project codes.

Invoice numbers.

Randy had been using information from documents I brought home during late nights. He had photographed paperwork from my bag. He had planned to open fraudulent credit lines using my identity and bury the transactions under fake vendor payments connected to my company.

Not just freeloading.

Not just lying.

He was building a crime scene around me.

I called my boss, then our legal department, then the police.

By noon, my apartment was full of people in suits asking careful questions.

By three, I had turned over the computer.

By five, Randy texted again.

Randy: I’m sorry. I was drunk. Can we talk?

I sent one reply.

Sarah: We will. With detectives present.

The collapse happened faster than I expected.

Randy’s friends folded almost immediately. Kyle handed over messages. Another admitted Randy had bragged about “marrying the money faucet before cutting the pipe.” His fake applications were traced. The restaurant provided security footage of him grabbing my jaw and ordering champagne under my account. The bank confirmed suspicious attempts to open business credit in my name.

Then the Mustang vanished.

Not stolen.

Repossessed by me.

I had it towed from the public lot where Randy had abandoned it after the police removed him from my building. When he called screaming, I let it go to voicemail and saved every word.

Three weeks later, I saw him again in court.

He wore a gray suit I had bought him for my cousin’s wedding. It hung badly on him now, like even the fabric wanted distance.

His mother sat behind him, crying loudly. His friends avoided his eyes. His attorney whispered urgently while Randy stared at me with pure hatred.

I expected anger.

I expected fear.

What I did not expect was the woman who entered the courtroom five minutes before the hearing began.