On My Wedding Night, My Reformed Husband Revealed He'd Planned Years to Destroy Me — Now I'm Fighting for What's Left of My Life
After Marcus stormed out, Nia Wallace immediately contacted Detective Sanchez again, sharing the details of Marcus’s hostile reaction. Detective Sanchez confirmed that “Mark Benson” had used similar intimidation tactics in the Martha Jenkins case, always threatening legal action when pressed. It was a hallmark of his confidence and his belief that he could manipulate the system.
Nia knew she couldn’t directly link Marcus to the fraudulent appraisal or the corrupt notary based on his alias alone. She needed concrete evidence, something digital, something undeniable. Her focus immediately shifted to Franklin Webb, the appraiser. He was the weak link, the professional who had actively participated in the fraud.
She discreetly initiated a formal request for his professional records, looking for any past disciplinary actions or unusual appraisal patterns. While waiting for those to come through, she decided to pay Mr. Webb an unscheduled visit at his office. She knew that a direct, confrontational approach wouldn’t work; Webb would simply deny everything. She needed to be subtle, to observe, to look for the tells.
Franklin Webb’s office was small, cluttered, and smelled faintly of old coffee. He was a portly man in his mid-fifties, with a perpetually nervous air about him. He greeted Nia with a forced smile, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding direct contact. He seemed uncomfortable, almost agitated, by her presence.
“Detective Wallace,” he said, clearing his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I believe I already submitted my report for the Bell property.”
Nia smiled politely, settling into the visitor’s chair.
“Yes, Mr. Webb, you did,” she replied, her voice calm and conversational. “I’m just doing some routine follow-up. Standard procedure in cases involving, shall we say, rather complex spousal asset transfers.”
She watched his face carefully. The mention of “complex spousal asset transfers” made him visibly flinch. His eyes flickered to a stack of papers on his desk, then to his phone, which sat face-down beside his computer. It was a nervous, almost involuntary glance, but it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Complex?” Webb chuckled, a thin, reedy sound. “No, no, nothing complex about the Bell appraisal. Straightforward valuation. Property needs work, you know. Older home.”
“Yes, your report was quite detailed about the… structural deficiencies,” Nia remarked, her tone even, betraying no skepticism. “However, the previous owner, Evelyn Jefferson, has a somewhat different assessment of the property’s condition. She believes the recent renovations were quite extensive.”
Webb visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Well, perceptions differ, Detective,” he stammered. “My job is to provide an objective, professional opinion. And my opinion, based on standard industry metrics, stands.”
He fidgeted with a pen on his desk, his gaze still avoiding hers, constantly drifting back to his phone. It was a clear tell: he was worried about what might be on that device. He was guarding a secret, and he knew it was probably digital.
Nia changed tack, her voice becoming more casual.
“You’ve been appraising in this area for a long time, haven’t you, Mr. Webb?” she asked. “You must have seen a lot of changes, a lot of different clients.”
“Oh, yes, decades,” Webb replied, seemingly relieved by the less confrontational question. “Known pretty much everyone who’s bought and sold around here.”
“Including the Bell family?” Nia asked, her voice light, as if making a passing inquiry. “Marcus Bell’s family. You would have known his father, perhaps?”
The question hung in the air. Webb froze. His eyes widened, and he actually gripped the edge of his desk. A look of sheer panic flashed across his face.
“The… the Bell family?” he stammered, his voice suddenly tight. “I… I might have, many years ago. It’s a large family, Detective. Hard to keep track.”
His denial was too quick, too emphatic. Nia knew she had hit a nerve. There was a past connection, a hidden history between Webb and Marcus’s family. This wasn’t just a random appraiser; he was a willing, and perhaps long-standing, participant in the Bell family’s designs on Evelyn’s property. The hidden connection from the outline – “possibly having appraised the property during the original family dispute decades prior” – was likely true. This was the specific piece of petty cruelty: a trusted local professional, a neighbor even, had been quietly working against Evelyn’s family for decades.
Nia remained silent, simply holding his gaze. Webb squirmed under her scrutiny, his nervousness palpable. He reached instinctively for his phone, then stopped himself, remembering her presence. The way he nervously glanced at it, almost possessively, strongly suggested that his phone was a secret keeper.
“Well, Mr. Webb,” Nia said, finally standing. “I appreciate your time. Just trying to tie up some loose ends, you understand.”
She gave him a polite, but knowing, smile.
“Sometimes,” she added, her voice quiet, “the easiest way to tie up loose ends is to look at the full picture. Every communication. Every detail.”
She left his office, leaving him visibly shaken, his eyes still glued to his phone. Nia didn’t need a confession; she had seen enough. The subtle inconsistencies in his story, his obvious discomfort, and his telling glances at his device—they all pointed to one thing. Digital communication.
She returned to the precinct, her resolve hardened. She would no longer wait for official professional records. She immediately initiated a formal request for Franklin Webb’s phone records and digital communications. She believed, with a growing certainty, that Webb’s phone held the key to unlocking Marcus’s meticulously crafted scheme. That device, lying innocently on his desk, was the silent witness she needed, the digital footprint of their conspiracy.
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