The Con Artist’s Wife

Chapter 1: The Stranger in My Bedroom

The house key trembled in my hand as I stood before the front door. Three days in the hospital had felt like three years, and all I wanted was to collapse into my own bed, wrapped in the familiar scent of home.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the porch, and somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. I turned the key slowly, not wanting to wake anyone if they were napping. The door creaked open, and I stepped inside, my hospital bag rustling softly against my leg.

The house felt different somehow. Warmer. More alive than when I’d left it. Voices drifted down from upstairs—low and intimate—followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter. My heart began to race, but not with joy.

The wooden stairs groaned under my weight as I climbed toward our bedroom, each step echoing through the silence like a countdown. At the top of the landing, I paused. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, I could see movement. Shadows dancing against the wall.

I pushed the door open.

What I saw in that moment would haunt me for the rest of my life, but it would also become the catalyst for the most elaborate revenge I could ever imagine.

Three weeks earlier, the accident had been sudden and brutal. One moment, I was driving home from my book club meeting, thinking about the Thai takeout I’d pick up for dinner. The next, I was waking up in a hospital bed with tubes running into my arms and a splitting headache that made me nauseous.

“Mrs. Griffin,” the doctor had said, pulling up a chair beside my bed. “You’re very lucky. The drunk driver who hit you walked away without a scratch, but you suffered a severe concussion and some internal bruising. We’re going to keep you here for observation, probably three to four days.”

Four days. I’d never been away from home for that long. Not since my wedding five years ago.

My husband, Dallas, had been by my side when I first woke up, holding my hand and whispering sweet words about how scared he’d been when he got the call.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Josephine,” he’d said, his green eyes glistening. “You mean everything to me.”

I’d squeezed his hand, feeling foolish for the warmth that spread through my chest. After five years of marriage, after all the small arguments about dirty dishes and whose turn it was to take out the trash, it was reassuring to know that he still loved me deeply.

Dallas visited every day, bringing flowers and magazines and updates about work. He was a financial advisor at a small firm downtown, and his clients adored him. He had that easy charm that made everyone feel like they were his best friend within minutes.

“How’s Megan doing?” I asked on the second day, referring to his elderly client who’d become something of a surrogate grandmother to both of us.

“Oh, she’s fine. Keeps asking about you, actually. Wants to bring you some of her famous cookies when you get out.”

“And the Grants? Are they still worried about their retirement fund?”

Dallas’s smile flickered for just a moment. “Yeah, they’re… they’re fine too. Don’t worry about work stuff, Josephine. Just focus on getting better.”

On the third day, my sister Cynthia came to visit. She lived two hours away and had driven down as soon as she’d heard about the accident. We’d always been close despite being complete opposites. Where I was cautious and thoughtful, Cynthia was impulsive and outspoken.

“You look terrible,” she said, dropping into the visitor’s chair.

“Thanks. That’s exactly what every recovering accident victim wants to hear.”

She grinned and pulled out a box of chocolates. “These are from the fancy place downtown. I figured hospital food couldn’t be worse, but just in case.”

We talked for hours. Cynthia told me about her latest dating disaster, a guy who’d shown up to their coffee date wearing a shirt that said World’s Okayest Lover. I filled her in on the neighborhood drama she’d missed.

“Mrs. Jenkins caught someone going through her garbage again,” I said, unwrapping one of the chocolates. “She’s convinced it’s part of some elaborate identity theft scheme.”

“Or maybe she throws away really good stuff,” Cynthia suggested. “Remember when we found that vintage jewelry box in old Mrs. Peterson’s trash when we were kids?”

The memory made me laugh, which sent a spike of pain through my ribs. Cynthia’s expression immediately shifted to concern. “Are you okay?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Just still sore.” I adjusted my position carefully. “The doctor says I might get out tomorrow if my latest scan comes back clean.”

“That’s great. Dallas must be excited to have you home.”

Something in her tone made me look at her more closely. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just… you know how men are when they have to fend for themselves. He’s probably living off cereal and takeout by now.”

She was right, of course. Dallas was many things, but domestic wasn’t one of them.

That evening, after Cynthia had gone back to her hotel, I called Dallas to let him know I might be coming home a day early. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail. I tried again an hour later. Still no answer. It wasn’t unusual for him to miss calls, but something about the silence felt different tonight.

The next morning, Dr. Patel came in with my test results and a smile. “Everything looks good, Mrs. Griffin. You’re cleared to go home.”

I thanked her and gathered my belongings. The taxi ride home took twenty minutes through familiar streets lined with oak trees. As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed Dallas’s car wasn’t there. He was probably at work.

I paid the taxi driver and walked slowly up the front steps. The moment I stepped inside, I knew something was different. The house smelled like vanilla candles, which was strange because I’d never bought vanilla candles. There was also something else—a perfume I didn’t recognize, something floral and expensive.

I set my hospital bag down in the entryway and listened. The house wasn’t empty. There were voices coming from upstairs. A woman’s laugh, light and musical, followed by Dallas’s deeper chuckle.

My first thought was that maybe Cynthia had driven back down to surprise me. But Cynthia’s laugh was loud and boisterous, nothing like the delicate sound I just heard.

I climbed the stairs slowly. The voices were coming from our bedroom.

“We should probably get dressed soon,” the woman was saying. “She might call.”

“Relax,” Dallas replied, his voice lazy and content. “She won’t be out until tomorrow. We have all night.”

I stopped breathing. The bedroom door was slightly open. Through the gap, I could see our bed. Dallas was there, his back to the door, and beneath him was a woman with long auburn hair and porcelain skin. She was beautiful in a way that made my chest tight—the kind of beauty that belonged in magazines, not in small suburban bedrooms.

They were moving together in a rhythm I recognized. A rhythm that belonged to me and Dallas.

I stood frozen in the doorway, watching my marriage dissolve before my eyes. This wasn’t a moment of weakness or a drunken mistake. This was intimate. Familiar.

The woman turned her head slightly, and for a terrifying moment, I thought she might see me. But her eyes were closed, lost in the moment.

I backed away from the door on trembling legs. I made it to the top of the stairs before my knees gave out and I had to grab the banister. Everything I thought I knew about my life had just crumbled.

I needed to leave. But where could I go? My car was still at the auto shop.

I crept back down the stairs and out the front door, closing it as quietly as I could. I walked to the end of the driveway and sat down on the curb, my whole body shaking.

Ten minutes later, she came out. She kissed Dallas goodbye on the front porch and drove away in a red sedan. Dallas stood in the doorway watching her go, a satisfied smile on his face.

I waited until he went back inside before I stood up and brushed off my jeans. The initial shock was wearing off, and something else was taking its place. Something cold and calculating.

I walked back up the driveway and let myself into my own house.

“Dallas!” I called out, keeping my voice light. “I’m home!”

He appeared at the top of the stairs, and for just a moment, I saw panic flash across his face before he covered it with a smile.

“Josephine! You’re back early. I thought they were keeping you until tomorrow.”

“Doctor said I could come home today. Surprise!”

He came down the stairs and pulled me into a hug. He smelled like sex and her perfume. And when he kissed my forehead, I could taste the lie on his lips.

---

Chapter 2: The Investigation

That night, we went to bed together. Dallas was tender and careful, mindful of my injuries. If I hadn’t known about her, I might have thought it was one of the most romantic nights we’d had in months. But I did know, and every touch felt like a betrayal.

When he fell asleep beside me, I stared at the ceiling. I could confront him. I could demand an explanation. But something told me that wouldn’t be enough. He’d lied so easily.

No. If I was going to end this marriage, I was going to do it on my terms.

The next morning, Dallas left for work, and I began my investigation. My first stop was his home office. His computer was password protected, but I guessed it on the third try: Josephine0515. Our wedding date. The irony was suffocating.

His email was clean, but his browser history told a different story. He’d been visiting real estate websites, looking at condos downtown. Deeper in the history, I found searches for divorce law—specifically how assets were divided in our state and whether adultery affected alimony.

Dallas wasn’t just cheating. He was planning an exit strategy.

That afternoon, I called his office. “Griffin Financial Services, this is Melissa.”

“Hi Melissa, it’s Josephine. Is Dallas available?”

“Oh, hi honey! He’s with the Johnsons right now. But you can come by later!”

“Has he been very busy while I was in the hospital?”

Melissa laughed. “Oh, you know Dallas. But he’s been a little distracted. We had a new client come in last week—a young woman starting her own business. She’s been in several times. Victoria Blake. She owns that new boutique on Fifth Street.”

Victoria Blake. I finally had a name.

I looked her up immediately. Her boutique, Blake’s, was upscale. The “About Us” page featured a photo of the woman from my bedroom—auburn hair, bright smile. Twenty-six years old.

I spent the next hour researching. I found her home address—an expensive apartment complex downtown. How was a struggling new business owner affording that?

Over the next week, I developed a routine. Dallas would leave, and I would follow Victoria. I watched her at her boutique. I followed her to lunch meetings.

On Thursday, I followed her to the most exclusive restaurant in the city. She met an older man, probably in his fifties, wearing an expensive suit. They held hands across the table. He kissed her when she returned from the restroom.

Victoria Blake wasn’t just cheating on Dallas. She was cheating on both of them with someone else.

I followed the older man to the parking lot and got his license plate. A quick search identified him as Richard Hawthorne, a wealthy car dealership owner. Married.

That evening, I called my sister.

“Cynthia, I need a favor. A big one.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I need you to help me catch Dallas cheating.”

I told her everything.

“Oh my god, Josephine. What do you want to do?”

“I want to destroy him.”

That Friday, Dallas left for a “conference.” Cynthia arrived two hours later.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“We’re going to his office. I need to see his financial records.”

Using Dallas’s key card, we entered his office building late at night. What I found on his computer was worse than adultery.

Dallas had been skimming money from his clients’ accounts. Small amounts at first, then larger ones. All funneled through shell companies into accounts belonging to Blake’s Boutique.

“Jesus Christ,” Cynthia whispered. “This is felony embezzlement.”

I printed everything. Then I found the draft email.

V, I can’t keep doing this much longer. Josephine’s getting suspicious. I’ve moved most of our joint assets into the offshore account. We should be able to disappear to Costa Rica by the end of the month.

Dallas wasn’t just leaving me. He was stealing everything we had and running away with a con artist.

“We need to call the police,” Cynthia said.

“Not yet,” I replied, copying the files to a flash drive. “I’m going to give them exactly what they want. I’m going to help them disappear.”

---

Chapter 3: The Trap

On Monday, I opened a new bank account in my maiden name and transferred a small amount of our savings. Just enough to survive.

Then, I started making calls.

“Hawthorne Automotive, this is Megan.”

I hung up. Richard Hawthorne’s secretary wouldn’t put me through. I called his dealership directly, pretending to be a furious customer with a warranty issue, until I got his personal cell number.

“This is Richard.”

“Mr. Hawthorne, my name is Josephine Griffin. I believe you know my husband, Dallas Griffin.”

“I’m not familiar with that name.”

“That’s strange, because he’s been having an affair with the same woman you have. Victoria Blake.”

Silence.

“Victoria Blake, also known as Victoria Chin. Auburn hair. Drives a red Toyota Camry. She owns Blake’s Boutique, though I’m sure you know that since you’ve been funding it.”

“What do you want?” His voice was cold.

“I want to meet. Tomorrow, 2:00 PM at the coffee shop on Elm Street. Come alone. Or I call your wife.”

He hung up. I knew he’d be there.

Next, I called Dallas at work. “Can you come home early? We need to talk.”

He arrived twenty minutes later, looking worried. “What’s wrong?”

I was waiting in the living room. “I know about Victoria Blake. I know about the money you’ve been stealing. I know about Costa Rica.”

The color drained from his face. “Josephine, I can explain—”

“No, you can’t. I’m giving you a choice. Turn yourself in, confess, and pay back the money. Or stick to your plan, run away with Victoria, and hope I never find you.”

He stared at me. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. But if you choose option two, you should know Victoria Blake isn’t who you think she is.” I slid a manila envelope across the table. “Her real name is Victoria Chin. She’s a convicted felon. And she’s taking money from at least one other man, Richard Hawthorne.”

Dallas opened the envelope. Photos of Victoria and Richard. Bank statements. Her criminal record.

“She’s been playing you, Dallas.”

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

“Call her. Tell her you want to leave for Costa Rica this weekend. See what she says.”

He dialed. He put it on speaker.

“Victoria, I think we need to move up our timeline. Leave this weekend.”

“Dallas, we’ve talked about this,” her voice came through, impatient. “The timing has to be perfect. I really can’t talk right now.”

She hung up.

Dallas looked at me, defeated. “She’s with him right now, isn’t she?”

“Probably.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you gone. By tomorrow morning. If you choose prison, leave a note with your lawyer’s name. If you choose Costa Rica, don’t leave anything.”

I drove to Cynthia’s hotel for the night.

---

Chapter 4: The Squeeze

The next morning, Richard Hawthorne met me at the coffee shop. I showed him the video of Dallas’s call with Victoria. I showed him the bank records proving Dallas had embezzled nearly half a million dollars for her.

“She’s playing both of you,” I said. “And she’s planning to run.”

Richard looked furious. “She cost me ninety thousand dollars.”

“I have a plan,” I said. “We’re going to make her panic.”

That evening, I returned home. Dallas’s car was gone. On the kitchen table was a note.

Josephine, I chose prison. I called the police. I’m sorry.

I felt a flicker of relief, but mostly anger that it took threats to make him do the right thing. The news broke that evening: Local Financial Advisor Arrested for Embezzlement.

Phase one complete. Now for Victoria.

I called her boutique on Saturday.

“Victoria, this is Josephine Griffin. Dallas’s wife.”

Silence.

“I know about the affair. I know about the money. And now that Dallas is in jail, your primary source of income just disappeared. Meet me at your store. 2:00 PM. Or I call Richard Hawthorne’s wife.”

At 2:00 PM, I walked into Blake’s. Victoria looked wrecked.

“Close the store,” I ordered.

She locked the door.

“You’re going to pay back every penny you took from Dallas and Richard,” I said.

“I don’t have that kind of money!”

“Then you’d better figure it out. Because if you don’t, I’m going to make sure everyone knows who Victoria Chin really is.”

I left her terrified.

Sunday evening, she called me, begging. “I have more money. Hidden money. Two hundred thousand. I’ll give it to you if you let me go.”

“No deal,” I said. “I want you to pay for your crimes.”

I hung up and called Detective Rodriguez, the officer handling Dallas’s case.

“Detective, I have information about an accomplice. Her name is Victoria Chin. She just confessed to hiding assets.”

---

Chapter 5: The Takedown

On Tuesday morning, I watched from my car as Victoria frantically packed boxes in her boutique. At noon, Richard Hawthorne arrived. I’d told him to demand his money back or threaten to go to the police himself. He left twenty minutes later, looking grim.

Victoria was cornered.

Wednesday morning, I sat in my car across from her apartment building with a cup of coffee. At 9:00 AM, three unmarked police cars pulled up. Detective Rodriguez entered the building. Twenty minutes later, they brought Victoria out in handcuffs.

She saw me across the street. I raised my coffee cup.

That afternoon, I met Richard one last time.

“She’s in custody,” I told him. “The police found her stash. $230,000. It’ll go toward restitution for Dallas’s victims.”

“What about us?” Richard asked.

“You get to go back to your wife without her ever knowing. I’d say that’s worth ninety thousand dollars.”

He laughed. “You really are something else, Josephine.”

---

Chapter 6: The Clean Slate

Six months later, I sat in my lawyer’s office, finalizing the divorce. Dallas was serving seven years. The house sale had closed.

“You should clear about $200,000,” my lawyer said.

“Good. Put half in a trust for Dallas’s victims who didn’t get full restitution. The other half goes into my Fresh Start fund.”

“Fresh Start?”

“I’m moving to Seattle.”

Three weeks later, I stood on the balcony of my new apartment, overlooking the Space Needle. My phone buzzed. Cynthia texted: Victoria got 12 years. You must be relieved.

I was. Vindication tasted sweet.

I unpacked the last box and found a framed photo of Dallas and me on our wedding day. I looked at the naive girl in the white dress. She was gone, replaced by someone sharper. Someone who knew that justice wasn’t given; it was taken.

I dropped the photo in the trash.

My phone rang. An unknown number.

“Hello, is this Josephine Griffin?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Detective Sarah Kim, Seattle PD. We have a financial fraud case involving a woman targeting married men. We understand you helped solve a similar case back east. We could use your insight.”

I looked out at the city lights twinkling in the twilight. A smile touched my lips.

“Detective,” I said, grabbing my keys. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

My new life was about to get very interesting.