Khloe’s voice carried that particular tone she’d perfected since bringing Derek home six months ago—the one that said I was somehow less than, always had been, always would be.

“Every year you show up and make everything uncomfortable with your lawyer talk and your work stories. Nobody cares that you win cases or whatever. This is family time.” She emphasized the last two words like I was incapable of understanding the concept.

Derek leaned forward, his expensive watch catching the light. “Khloe’s just trying to protect the holiday spirit. You corporate types don’t really get family dynamics, right? Too busy billing hours.” He said it with a smile—the kind that’s supposed to soften an insult, but actually makes it sharper.

My mother’s face fell. She started to say something, but Khloe cut her off. “Mom, don’t. Naomi knows I’m right. She’s been like this since law school. Everything’s a competition. Everything’s a case to win.” She turned to me with theatrical patience. “We just want one normal family dinner without you turning it into a deposition.”

I set down my fork carefully, feeling every eye at the table on me. Derek was still smirking, clearly enjoying this. Khloe looked vindicated, like she’d been waiting for this moment.

What they didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that three days earlier I’d been assigned a case at Davidson and Pierce involving a fraud investigation for a major client. And this morning, I’d walked into Conference Room B to meet with a witness who claimed to have evidence of embezzlement in the Seattle freelance design community. The witness hadn’t arrived yet, but the preliminary files were already on my desk—files that included screenshots of financial transactions, emails, and several names.

One name had made me freeze.

Derek Walsh.

“You’re right,” I said quietly, picking up my wine glass. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.” I took a slow sip, meeting Khloe’s eyes over the rim. “Family should always come first.”

Derek shifted beside her, something flickering across his face too quickly for anyone else to notice. But I’d spent six years reading micro-expressions in courtroom witnesses.

That was fear.

He knew something, even if he didn’t know I knew.

I smiled at him, warm and genuine. “Derek, I don’t think I’ve properly congratulated you on your business success. Khloe says you’re doing incredibly well with your freelance work.”

His smile tightened. “Yeah. It’s been a good year.”

“I’d love to hear more about it,” I continued, keeping my tone light and interested. “What kind of clients do you work with mostly?”

Khloe beamed, the earlier tension forgotten in her eagerness to brag about her boyfriend. “Derek has such amazing clients. He just landed a contract with that boutique hotel chain, remember, Mom? The one with locations all over the Pacific Northwest?”

My mother nodded enthusiastically, clearly relieved we’d moved past the conflict.

Derek’s jaw was tight, but he maintained his casual façade. “It’s nothing that interesting, really. Just design work—logos, websites, branding packages.”

“And they pay well?” I asked innocently. “Freelancing can be so unpredictable financially. I always worry about people who don’t have steady paychecks.”

“Derek does amazing,” Khloe jumped in, defensive now. “He’s booked months in advance. Tell her about the retainer model you use.”

Something was very wrong with Derek Walsh. I could see it now in the way his fingers drummed against the table, and how his eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine when I asked about his work.

The preliminary files on my desk weren’t complete yet, but they contained enough information to paint a concerning picture: multiple clients reporting missing funds, payments made to vendors that didn’t exist, design work contracted but never delivered, money disappearing into accounts that couldn’t be traced.

And sitting at my family’s dinner table, basking in my sister’s adoration, was a man whose name appeared on six separate complaints.

I excused myself after dessert, claiming an early morning. Khloe rolled her eyes dramatically. “See? Can’t even stay for one full evening.”

But I barely heard her. My mind was already three steps ahead, calculating timelines and evidence chains and the precise moment when everything Derek Walsh had built on lies would come crashing down.

Monday morning arrived with Seattle’s typical December rain, gray light filtering through my office windows on the nineteenth floor. I’d barely slept, my mind cycling through the implications of what I had discovered.

At 8:45, my assistant buzzed. “Ms. Fletcher, your 9:00 is here early. A Derek Walsh.”

My coffee cup stopped halfway to my lips. I set it down carefully and pressed the intercom button. “Give me two minutes, then send him in.”

Derek walked into my office like he owned it, all casual confidence in dark jeans and an expensive leather jacket. He didn’t recognize me immediately. Why would he? We’d only met twice before, both times briefly at family events where I’d been introduced simply as Khloe’s sister. He certainly hadn’t connected the dots between Khloe Fletcher’s lawyer sister and Naomi Fletcher—senior associate at one of Seattle’s most aggressive corporate litigation firms.

“Mr. Walsh,” I said, not standing, not offering my hand. “Please sit down.”

He did, sprawling in the chair like we were meeting at a coffee shop instead of a law office where his entire future was about to be dissected.

“Thanks for seeing me on short notice. Your firm came highly recommended for my situation.”

“Your situation,” I repeated, opening the file in front of me. Inside were the preliminary documents I’d reviewed over the weekend: financial statements from four different small businesses, screenshots of email exchanges, bank records showing money flowing into accounts that shouldn’t exist.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what brings you here?”

Derek leaned forward, his expression shifting into something calculated and earnest. “I’m being accused of financial impropriety by some former clients. Complete misunderstanding. They’re small business owners who don’t really understand how creative services billing works. I need representation to clear my name before this gets out of hand.”

I let the silence stretch.

Watching him, he filled it exactly how I expected.

“These people, they’re vindictive. I delivered exactly what was promised, but they’re claiming discrepancies in billing. One woman is threatening to go to the police. Can you believe that? Over a contract dispute.” He shook his head like it was absurd. “I need someone who understands business law who can shut this down before it affects my reputation. I’m about to land some major contracts. I can’t have this hanging over me.”

“Major contracts,” I said, “with the boutique hotel chain.”

His eyes lit up. “Exactly. See, you get it. This is about protecting my business trajectory. These small-time clients are trying to take me down because they’re jealous of my success.”

I closed the file and folded my hands on top of it. “Mr. Walsh, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”

He nodded eagerly. “Of course. Total transparency.”

“Are you currently in a relationship with Khloe Fletcher?”

The blood drained from his face. For three full seconds, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then he laughed, but it came out wrong—strained, and too high.

“That’s a weird question. Why would my personal life matter for a business case?”

“Because Khloe Fletcher is my sister.”

The silence that followed was beautiful.

Derek’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t know you were… Khloe never said…”

“No,” I agreed. “She wouldn’t have. Khloe talks about her lawyer sister sometimes, but she’s never particularly interested in the details of my career. And you’ve been too busy charming her and my parents to pay attention to my last name.”

I opened the file again and turned it so he could see the top page.

“These aren’t misunderstandings, Derek. These are fraud complaints. Four different clients, all with the same pattern. You contract design work, collect substantial deposits, create fake vendor invoices to justify additional payments, then deliver substandard work—or disappear entirely. The money gets funneled through shell accounts. It’s actually quite sophisticated for a freelance operation.”

Derek’s face had gone from white to gray.

“You can’t represent these people. That’s a conflict of interest. You’re dating my girlfriend’s sister. I mean, you’re my girlfriend’s sister.”

“I’m not representing them,” I said calmly. “I’m representing the firm that’s conducting an independent investigation after one of the victims filed a complaint with our client, Northwest Business Alliance. They offer insurance and bonding for creative professionals. You’re bonded through them, aren’t you? That’s how you convince clients you’re legitimate.”

His throat worked. “This is insane. You’re biased. You can’t be objective about this because of Khloe.”

“Actually, my involvement with this case was assigned before I had any idea you were connected to it. Pure coincidence—or maybe karma.”

I closed the file again.

“But you’re right that I can’t continue as the primary investigator now that I know about your relationship with my sister. I’ll be disclosing the conflict to my partners this afternoon and recusing myself from direct handling.”

Relief flooded his features. “Okay. Good. So, we can just…”

“But,” I continued, “I’ll be referring this case to Diane Morrison—our senior partner who specializes in fraud prosecution. She’s significantly less patient than I am, and she doesn’t have any personal connection that might make her inclined toward leniency.”

I stood up, signaling the meeting was over. “I’d recommend you get a criminal defense attorney, Derek, not a civil litigation firm, because what you’ve done isn’t just grounds for lawsuits. It’s criminal fraud—wire fraud specifically, since you used electronic transfers. Federal charges.”

Derek stood too, his legs unsteady. “You can’t do this. Khloe will never forgive you. Your whole family will hate you for destroying Christmas.”

“Christmas?” I repeated. “You’re worried about Christmas.”

I walked around my desk, stood close enough that he had to look up slightly to meet my eyes.

“You stole from small business owners, Derek. A bakery owner who’s a single mother. A nonprofit arts organization. A veteran trying to start a graphic design education program. You took their money, gave them nothing, and then called them vindictive when they asked for accountability. But sure—let’s worry about Christmas dinner.”

His face hardened. “If you pursue this, I’ll tell Khloe you’re doing it because you’re jealous. Because you’ve always been jealous that I chose her instead of you. She’ll believe me.”

I smiled. “Will she? Because that’s an interesting defense strategy. Please, go ahead—tell my sister that her boyfriend of six months thinks her lawyer sister is romantically interested in him. I’m sure that will go over beautifully.”

Derek’s hands clenched into fists. For a moment, I thought he might actually take a swing at me, but he was smarter than that.

Barely.

He turned and walked to the door, yanked it open. Then he paused and looked back.

“You’re really going to destroy your sister’s happiness over some business disputes?”

“I’m going to make sure you face consequences for stealing from people who trusted you,” I corrected. “What happens to Khloe’s happiness in the process isn’t my primary concern. Maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to date her while running a criminal enterprise.”

He left without another word.

I waited until I heard the elevator ding, then picked up my phone and called my senior partner.

Diane Morrison had been practicing law for twenty-three years and had the reputation of a shark in expensive heels. She listened to my explanation of the conflict without interrupting, her silver pen tapping against her desk in a steady rhythm. When I finished, she nodded once.

“You’re absolutely right to recuse yourself from primary handling. But I want you on the team as a consultant. You know this man’s patterns now. You’ve seen how he operates.” She leaned back in her leather chair. “And frankly, if he’s stupid enough to be dating your sister while committing fraud, he’ll make other stupid mistakes we can exploit.”

I spent the next week buried in documentation.

The case against Derek Walsh expanded like a stain spreading through fabric. Five victims became seven, then ten. Each followed the same pattern: initial contact through professional networking sites or referrals; enthusiastic pitches about his portfolio and capabilities; contracts that looked legitimate but contained carefully worded loopholes; deposits paid, then delays, excuses, additional fees for unexpected complications; work delivered late and substandard—if delivered at all—and throughout, money disappearing into accounts registered to shell companies with addresses that led to empty offices or abandoned warehouses.

What made it particularly ugly was how Derek chose his victims: small operations, people just starting out, business owners who didn’t have the resources to hire lawyers or forensic accountants. He’d cultivated an image of success—the expensive watch, the designer clothes, the confident swagger—and used it to convince people he was legitimate.

Meanwhile, he was drowning in gambling debt.

We found the casino records on Thursday. Derek Walsh had been hemorrhaging money at three different tribal casinos for the past two years. Some nights he’d lose fifteen thousand dollars. The pattern was compulsive, desperate. He’d win big, convince himself he’d figured out a system, then lose everything plus more.

The design business wasn’t just a scam.

It was his way of feeding an addiction.

Khloe called me on Friday evening. I was still at the office reviewing bank statements and I almost didn’t answer.

“Hey,” she said, her voice careful. “Can we talk about Christmas dinner?”

I kept my tone neutral.

“I wanted to apologize. I was harsh.”

Derek said, “I embarrassed you in front of everyone, and he’s right. That wasn’t fair.”

I set down my pen and closed my eyes. Of course Derek had repositioned himself as the reasonable one.

“It’s fine, Khloe. Family stuff gets complicated.”

“It’s not fine,” she insisted. “You’re my sister, and I know I’ve been kind of obsessed with Derek lately. Mom says I haven’t been paying attention to anyone else. I’m trying to be better about that.”

The genuine remorse in her voice made my chest tight. Khloe could be self-absorbed and thoughtless, but she wasn’t cruel. Not really. She was just twenty-five and in love with a man who’d carefully constructed a persona designed to appeal to exactly someone like her—young, a little insecure, eager to believe she’d found someone special.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “How are things going with you two?”

“Really good,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “He’s been amazing this week. Super attentive. He took me to that restaurant I’ve been wanting to try—the expensive one on the waterfront. And he’s talking about us getting a place together after the holidays.”

My stomach dropped.

“Moving in together—that’s pretty fast, isn’t it?”

“I know it seems quick, but when you know, you know, right? And he’s so stable financially. He showed me his business accounts. He’s doing really well.”

Of course he did. Showing Khloe fabricated bank statements would be easy. She wouldn’t know what to look for, wouldn’t recognize the signs of financial manipulation.

“Just be careful,” I said. “Make sure you keep your finances separate until you’re really sure.”

“God, you sound like Dad.” She laughed. “Not everything is a legal contract, Naomi. Sometimes you can just trust people.”

The irony was suffocating.

Sunday afternoon, Derek made his first major mistake.

He showed up at my apartment building.

I was coming back from a run when I saw him leaning against the wall near the entrance, trying to look casual, but failing. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight.

“We need to talk,” he said when I approached.

I kept my distance, hand on my phone in my jacket pocket. “No, we don’t. You should leave.”

“You’re destroying my life,” he said, voice low and angry. “You’ve got your firm digging into every aspect of my business. You’re turning this into some kind of personal vendetta.”

“It’s not personal. It’s criminal prosecution. Big difference.”

He stepped closer. I stood my ground, finger hovering over the emergency call button.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re jealous. You’ve been single for what—two years? And your little sister finds someone successful and happy, and you can’t stand it.”

“Derek, you’re not successful. You’re a con artist with a gambling addiction. The only reason you pursued Khloe was because she works in marketing and doesn’t ask uncomfortable questions about where money comes from.”

His face twisted.

“You tell her and I’ll deny everything. I’ll say you fabricated evidence because you want to break us up. She’ll believe me over you. She already thinks you’re uptight and jealous.”

I pulled my phone out and showed him the screen.

Recording in progress.

His eyes went wide.

“Everything you just said—that’s now documented, including the implicit threat and your acknowledgment that you’re deceiving my sister.”

I pressed stop, saved the file, sent it to my work email before he could react.

“You’re also trespassing. I can have building security remove you, or you can leave on your own.”

Derek looked at me with something close to hatred.

“This isn’t over.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “It’s not. But not in the way you think.”

He left. I went upstairs, locked my door, and added the recording to the case file. Then I called Diane Morrison, even though it was Sunday evening.

“He’s panicking,” I told her. “Which means he knows we’re getting close to something big.”

“Good,” she said. “Panicked people make mistakes. Let’s see what he does next.”

What Derek did next was try to run.

On Monday morning, one of his victims called our office. Derek had contacted her offering a full refund plus damages if she’d sign a non-disclosure agreement and drop all complaints. He’d sent a contract—official-looking letterhead, promises of immediate payment.

But the woman was smart.

She’d brought it to us first.

Diane read the contract and smiled that sharp, shark smile. “This is wire fraud. He’s trying to obstruct our investigation. Forward this to the federal prosecutors. We’re done playing nice.”

Everything accelerated after that.

Federal agents got involved. Search warrants were executed—Derek’s apartment, his storage unit, his car. They found documents, burner phones, multiple sets of fake IDs. The gambling debt was worse than we’d thought. Derek Walsh owed money to people who didn’t accept payment plans.

The design scam wasn’t just about feeding an addiction.

It was about staying alive.

And through it all, Khloe knew nothing. She posted photos on social media: her and Derek at holiday markets, ice skating, drinking hot chocolate. In every picture, she looked radiant, happy, in love with a man who was about to be arrested for federal crimes.

I knew I had to tell her before it became public. I knew Christmas dinner, now just three days away, was going to be a disaster.

But I also knew something else.

Derek Walsh had stolen from people who couldn’t afford to lose. He’d lied, manipulated, and exploited trust. And when caught, his first instinct wasn’t remorse. It was to threaten me, to use my sister as a shield, to try to paint me as the villain.

Some people don’t deserve protection, even from themselves.

Christmas Eve arrived with fresh snow—unusual for Seattle. I drove to my parents’ house at four in the afternoon, my car packed with wrapped presents and a folder I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to open.

Khloe’s car was already in the driveway.

So was Derek’s.

I sat in my vehicle for a full minute, hands gripping the steering wheel, before I forced myself to move.

The house smelled like pine and cinnamon. Mom was in the kitchen. Dad was adjusting the Christmas tree lights. Khloe and Derek sat on the couch, his arm around her shoulders, both of them laughing at something on her phone. They looked perfect—happy—exactly like the kind of couple you’d see in a holiday commercial.

“Naomi.” Mom came out of the kitchen and hugged me. “I was worried you’d cancel. You’ve been working so much lately.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, keeping my voice light.

I met Derek’s eyes over Mom’s shoulder. He knew why I was here. I could see it in how his smile faltered, how his fingers tightened on Khloe’s shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked Khloe. “Privately?”

Derek stood up immediately. “Actually, I wanted to make an announcement first before dinner.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

My mother gasped.

Khloe’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Khloe,” Derek said, dropping to one knee right there in the living room. “I know we’ve only been together six months, but I’ve never been more sure of anything. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You make me want to be better. Will you marry me?”

The ring was enormous—probably two carats, platinum setting—exactly the kind of ostentatious piece Khloe had always dreamed about. She looked at it, looked at Derek, looked at our parents, who were beaming with joy.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of course, yes.”

Derek slipped the ring on her finger and pulled her into a kiss while Mom cried and Dad clapped. I stood frozen in the entryway, the folder in my hand suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Khloe turned to me, eyes shining. “Can you believe it? I’m engaged. You’re going to be my maid of honor, right?”

Derek was watching me, his expression triumphant.

He’d just raised the stakes impossibly high.

Now I wasn’t just exposing a criminal.

I was destroying my sister’s engagement—her happiness—her Christmas.

“Congratulations,” I managed.

“That’s wonderful.”

But my voice sounded hollow.

Mom heard it. “Naomi, are you okay?”

“I need to talk to Khloe,” I said again. “Now. Before dinner.”

“Can’t it wait?” Khloe asked, still staring at her ring. “This is kind of the most important moment of my life.”

“It can’t wait.”

I looked at Derek.

“And Derek needs to be part of this conversation.”

The happiness drained from the room like air from a punctured tire. Dad frowned.

“What’s going on?”

I opened the folder and pulled out the top document.

“Derek, you were served with federal papers this morning. Wire fraud, theft by deception, obstruction of justice. The FBI executed a search warrant on your apartment at six a.m.”

I looked at him.

“How long were you planning to wait before mentioning that to your new fiancée?”

The silence was absolute.

Khloe looked from me to Derek, confusion spreading across her face. “What are you talking about?”

Derek’s jaw clenched. “She’s lying. This is what I told you about, babe. She’s been jealous of us from the start. She’s making up stories to break us up.”

“I’m not making up anything.”

I pulled out more papers and spread them on the coffee table.

“These are complaints from ten different people Derek defrauded. This is documentation of shell companies he created to launder money. These are his gambling records from three tribal casinos showing losses of over four hundred thousand dollars in two years. And this—”

I placed a final document down carefully.

“—is the federal indictment that was filed yesterday afternoon.”

Khloe picked up the indictment with shaking hands. “This has to be fake. Derek would have told me if something like this was happening, wouldn’t he?”

I looked at Derek.

“Did you tell her you came to my law office two weeks ago asking for representation? Did you tell her you threatened me at my apartment? Did you mention that the ring you just put on her finger was purchased with money stolen from a nonprofit organization?”

His face had gone the color of concrete.

“You can’t prove any of that.”

“Actually, I can. The FBI traced the ring purchase directly to an account funded by stolen client deposits. That ring—it’s evidence. Federal agents will be confiscating it within forty-eight hours.”

Khloe stood up so fast she knocked over her wine glass. Red liquid spread across the white carpet like blood.

“This is insane. Derek, tell her she’s wrong. Tell her this is all a mistake.”

Derek looked at her, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes—remorse, fear, recognition that it was finally over.

Then his expression hardened.

“Your sister has been trying to sabotage us since day one. This is all fabricated. She’s using her law firm connections to create fake documents.”

“Call the FBI,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Here’s the agent’s direct number. Special Agent Marcus Bennett. Ask him yourself if the indictment is real.”

Nobody moved.

The silence stretched until it felt like the room might shatter from the pressure.

Then my father spoke, his voice cold in a way I’d never heard.

“Get out of my house.”

Derek turned to him hopefully. “Mr. Fletcher, thank you. I knew you’d see—”

“Not her,” Dad said. “You get out. And if you ever contact my daughter again, I’ll press charges for harassment.”

Derek’s face cycled through emotions—disbelief, anger, desperation.

“Khloe, you can’t believe this. Tell them. Tell them. You know I would never—”

But Khloe was staring at the indictment, tears streaming down her face.

“The bakery owner,” she whispered. “I know her. I met her at the farmers market. She was so excited about her business.”

She looked up at Derek.

“You stole from Rachel.”

“It was more complicated than—” Derek started, but she cut him off.

“Get out.”

Her voice shook.

“Give me back the ring and get out.”

“Khloe, please—”

“Now!” she screamed, her voice breaking.

She yanked the ring off her finger and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and fell to the carpet.

Derek bent to pick it up, his movements mechanical. He looked at me one last time—pure hatred in his eyes—then walked to the door.

We all listened to his car start, heard the engine fade into the distance.

Then Khloe turned to me.

“How long have you known?”

“Two weeks,” I said quietly. “Since he walked into my office trying to hire my firm.”

Khloe laughed, but it came out wrong—choked and bitter.

“Two weeks? You knew for two weeks and didn’t tell me? You let me keep dating him? Keep believing?”

Her voice broke completely.

“He proposed, Naomi. He got down on one knee in front of our parents and proposed. And you just stood there.”

“I was about to tell you,” I said. “Before dinner. That’s why I asked to talk privately. He proposed before I could.”

“You should have told me immediately.” She was shouting now, face red, hands clenched into fists. “The second you found out, you should have called me. But you didn’t. You let me keep making a fool of myself.”

Mom tried to intervene. “Khloe, honey. Naomi was doing her job.”

“Her job?” Khloe spun toward our mother. “Her job is to destroy people’s lives because that’s what she does, Mom. She tears everything apart and calls it justice.”

She turned back to me.

“You loved this, didn’t you? Perfect. Naomi, the successful lawyer, getting to prove her sister’s boyfriend was a criminal. Bet it felt great.”

“That’s not fair,” Dad said sharply. “Naomi exposed someone who was hurting innocent people. Someone who was lying to you.”

“She humiliated me,” Khloe screamed. “In front of my whole family on Christmas Eve. She humiliated me.”

I stood there taking it, letting her rage wash over me, because what else could I do?

She wasn’t wrong.

I had known for two weeks. I could have found a private moment. Could have told her gently. Could have at least prepared her before the federal indictment became public.

But I’d been so focused on building the case—on making sure Derek Walsh faced consequences—that I’d failed to protect my sister from the collateral damage.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have handled this differently.”

“Sorry.” Khloe’s voice dropped to something quiet and dangerous. “You’re sorry.”

She swallowed hard.

“I was in love with him, Naomi. I thought I was going to marry him. And now everyone’s going to know. Everyone’s going to know I was so stupid. I dated a criminal for six months and didn’t notice.”

“You weren’t stupid,” I started, but she cut me off.

“Yes, I was. I was stupid and blind, and you let me stay that way because building your case was more important than protecting me.”

She grabbed her coat from the rack.

“I can’t be here. I can’t look at any of you right now.”

“Khloe, wait,” Mom reached for her, but Khloe pulled away.

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

She looked at me one last time.

“I hope it was worth it. I hope destroying my life felt as good as you thought it would.”

The door slammed behind her.

We stood in the wreckage of Christmas Eve—the tree lights still twinkling, the turkey timer still beeping in the kitchen, pretending everything was fine.

The next morning, Derek Walsh was arrested at a motel near the airport. He’d been trying to cross into Canada with a fake passport and seventy-three thousand dollars in cash. The cash was traced directly to his most recent victim: a veteran who’d hired Derek to design branding for a PTSD support program.

Federal agents found additional evidence in Derek’s motel room—burner phones with contacts to loan sharks, forged client contracts, a notebook detailing future scams he’d been planning, including one that involved creating a fake wedding-planning business targeting engaged couples.

The news broke on December 26th. Local stations picked it up first, then regional papers.

Seattle designer arrested for multi-victim fraud scheme.

The story detailed everything: the stolen money, the gambling addiction, the fake companies. And because Derek had been stupid enough to propose publicly, there were photos—social media posts from Christmas Eve showing Khloe’s radiant face, the massive ring, the caption about being the luckiest girl alive.

By December 27th, she’d deleted all her social media accounts.

I tried calling her, texting—nothing. She was staying with a friend. Mom told me she didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk.

“Give her time,” Mom said, but her voice was tired, sad.

Christmas had been ruined for everyone.

The trial was scheduled for March. The federal prosecutor handling the case called me personally to thank me for the initial investigation.

“We’ve got him cold,” she said. “Between your firm’s documentation and the FBI’s search-warrant evidence, he’s looking at fifteen to twenty years minimum. The obstruction charges alone would put him away.”

“And the victims?” I asked. “What happens to them?”

“Restitution will be ordered,” she said, “but honestly, they’ll be lucky to see ten cents on the dollar. Most of the money’s gone—gambled away, or paid to cover other debts. The ring we seized is probably the most valuable asset we’ll recover.”

So Rachel, the bakery owner, wouldn’t get her money back. Neither would the veteran or the nonprofit or any of the others Derek had stolen from.

They’d get a conviction, a court order, and maybe someday a tiny fraction of what they’d lost.

Justice—but not restoration.

That was the reality people never understood. Winning in court didn’t undo the damage.

Three weeks after Christmas, Khloe finally agreed to meet me for coffee. She looked thin, her face drawn. The confidence she’d carried when Derek was around had evaporated completely.

“The prosecutor wants to interview me,” she said, stirring her latte without drinking it. “They want to know if I knew anything about Derek’s business practices, if I helped him in any way.”

“You didn’t,” I said firmly. “Derek kept you completely separate from his crimes. That was deliberate. He knew you wouldn’t have stayed if you’d known the truth.”

“How can you be sure?” She looked up at me finally. “How do you know I didn’t help him? I signed for packages at his apartment. I answered his phone sometimes when he was in the shower. What if I was part of it and didn’t know?”

“You weren’t,” I said. “The FBI traced every transaction, every communication. Your name doesn’t appear anywhere except in personal texts and social media posts. Derek used you as camouflage—as proof he was a normal guy with a normal relationship—but he kept you away from anything criminal.”

She nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced.

“Everyone looks at me differently now. At work, they all know. They whisper when I walk by. That’s the girl who dated the con man. I’m thinking about quitting. Maybe moving to a different city.”

“Or,” I said carefully, “you could stay and refuse to let Derek Walsh define you. You didn’t do anything wrong, Khloe. You fell in love with someone who lied to you. That’s not a character flaw. That’s being human.”

She was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was small.

“I keep thinking about what I said to you at Christmas dinner—about you being a disaster, about you ruining everything.” She wiped at her eyes. “I was so wrong.”

“You were in love,” I said. “People do stupid things when they’re in love. Trust me—I’ve represented enough divorce clients to know.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

“Does it get easier? The feeling like an idiot.”

“Eventually,” I said. “And then one day you’ll meet someone who actually deserves you, and you’ll realize Derek Walsh was just a bad chapter.”

“Not the whole story,” she nodded, still not quite believing it, but wanting to.

That was enough for now.

Derek’s trial lasted three days.

The evidence was overwhelming: testimony from victims, financial records, the recorded threats he’d made to me. His defense attorney tried to paint him as someone struggling with addiction who’d made mistakes but wasn’t malicious.

The jury didn’t buy it.

Guilty on all counts.

At sentencing, the judge gave him eighteen years.

“You preyed on small business owners and people trying to build better lives,” she said from the bench. “You stole not just money, but dreams and opportunities. You showed no remorse, no recognition of the harm you caused. This court hopes that eighteen years gives you time to develop the conscience you so clearly lack.”

Derek didn’t look at anyone as they led him away—not the victims in the gallery, not the reporters taking notes, not me.

Sitting in the back row, watching the man who’d tried to destroy my sister’s life finally face consequences.

Outside the courthouse, Rachel approached me—the bakery owner Derek had stolen from.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “For not letting him get away with it.”

“I’m sorry you won’t get your money back,” I told her.

She shrugged. “Money I can earn again eventually. But knowing he can’t hurt anyone else—that’s worth something.”

Spring came to Seattle with cherry blossoms and rain.

Khloe didn’t move away. She stayed, went back to work, slowly rebuilt her social media presence with posts about healing and learning to trust yourself again. She was careful now, more guarded, but also stronger in ways she hadn’t been before.

We had dinner together every other week. Sometimes Mom and Dad joined us. Sometimes it was just the two of us—sisters navigating the complicated aftermath of someone else’s choices.

Derek sent a letter from prison. It arrived at my office, forwarded by the federal prosecutor who’d been copied on it.

“You destroyed my life over a misunderstanding,” it read. “I made mistakes, but I was trying to fix them. You didn’t have to be so vindictive. You could have shown mercy.”

I read it once, then fed it through my office shredder.

Some people never learn. They never accept responsibility. They always find someone else to blame for consequences they brought on themselves.

Derek Walsh was serving eighteen years because he chose to steal from people who trusted him. Because he chose to gamble away everything. Because when caught, he chose to threaten and manipulate instead of accepting accountability.

The boutique hotel chain Derek had claimed to have a contract with—they’d been one of his planned scams. He’d created fake communications, forged documents, built an entire fictional business relationship he’d been preparing to exploit. When they found out about his arrest, they released a statement thanking our firm for preventing what could have been substantial financial losses.

Diane Morrison used it in our marketing materials. Three new clients hired us specifically because of how we’d handled the Walsh case.

I got a promotion in June—senior partner, youngest in the firm’s history. The announcement went out the same week Derek’s appeals were denied. He tried to argue ineffective counsel, procedural errors, anything to reduce his sentence.

Every appeal failed.

He’d serve every day of those eighteen years, minus whatever good-behavior time he earned.

And while he sat in a federal prison cell, the victims he’d hurt were slowly rebuilding.

Rachel’s bakery was thriving. The veteran had found a pro bono designer to complete his nonprofit’s branding. The others were moving forward—scarred, but surviving.

Khloe started dating again in August. Nothing serious, just casual dinners and coffee dates. She was careful, asked questions, paid attention to inconsistencies. She’d learned to trust her instincts, to value honesty over charm.

“I’m never going to be that naive again,” she told me over wine one evening. “I’m never going to ignore red flags because someone makes me feel special.”

“That’s good,” I said. “But don’t close yourself off completely. Not everyone is Derek Walsh.”

She smiled. “I know. And maybe someday I’ll meet someone who proves that.”

My parents asked me once if I regretted how I’d handled things—if I wished I’d told Khloe sooner, privately, before the Christmas Eve confrontation.

“Every day,” I admitted. “I think about how I could have done it differently, better, less publicly.”

“But you’d still have exposed him,” Dad said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I’d still have exposed him, because the alternative was letting him keep hurting people—and I couldn’t live with that.”

Mom nodded slowly. “Neither could we.”

Derek’s parole eligibility was in fifteen years. He’d be forty-four when he got out—middle-aged, marked by a federal conviction that would follow him forever. No legitimate business would hire him. He’d live with restrictions and monitoring and the permanent knowledge that he’d destroyed his own life through his own choices.

Meanwhile, I practiced law. Khloe built her career. Our parents retired and traveled.

We celebrated holidays without the shadow of a con man sitting at our table. We laughed and argued and loved each other with all the complicated messiness of real family.

And on the days when I wondered if I’d been too harsh, too unforgiving, too ruthless in pursuing Derek Walsh’s destruction, I thought about Rachel, about the veteran, about all the people who trusted someone and had that trust weaponized against them.

Then I stopped wondering.

Some people deserve what they get.

And sometimes, making sure they get it is exactly what justice looks like.