Amanda stared at the credit card statement spread across her kitchen counter. Three months of charges that broke their agreement.
Gas stations in Sandy Shores. Michael had promised never to go back there. Equipment rentals from a company that specialized in surveillance gear. A cash advance for eight hundred dollars with no explanation.
She sipped her coffee and highlighted another charge. Hardware store in downtown Los Santos. The kind of place that sold untraceable supplies.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Tracey: *Thanks for coming last night. Sorry Dad missed it again.*
Amanda's jaw tightened. Michael was slipping back into old patterns. Missing family events. Making excuses. Disappearing for hours.
The garage door rumbled. Michael's car pulling out of the driveway. Eight AM sharp. He'd mumbled something about meetings when she'd confronted him this morning.
What meetings? The FBI had cut contact six months ago. His handler transferred to another division.
Amanda waited until his engine sounds faded, then grabbed her purse and keys. Time to find out if her husband had broken his witness protection agreement.
---
First National Bank of Los Santos sat on Rockford Hills' main shopping strip. Amanda had banked there since Michael's witness protection placement fifteen years ago.
"Mrs. De Santa." Patricia smiled from behind her desk. "How can I help you today?"
"I need to review our account activity. Especially any new accounts or unusual transactions."
Patricia pulled up their information. Her fingers clicked across the keyboard. "Your joint accounts show normal activity, but there are some larger cash withdrawals recently."
"How large?"
"Fifteen hundred last month. Two thousand the month before."
Cash withdrawals meant untraceable spending. The kind Michael used to make before witness protection.
"What about safe deposit boxes?"
"Let me check." More keyboard clicks. "Yes, you have one box. Last accessed six months ago by your husband."
Six months. Right when his behavior started changing.
"I'd like to access it," Amanda said.
---
Inside their safe deposit box, Amanda found the emergency documents Dave Norton had given them years ago. Multiple identity papers for the entire family. Escape routes. Contact numbers for federal marshals.
But underneath were newer additions. A burner phone she'd never seen. Maps of Los Santos with locations marked in red. Photos of buildings she didn't recognize.
And a USB drive labeled "Insurance."
Amanda photographed everything with her phone, then replaced the items exactly as she'd found them. Michael was planning something. Or someone was planning something for him.
---
Amanda drove to Starbucks and called Dave Norton's old number. Disconnected. She tried the federal marshal service. After twenty minutes of transfers, she reached someone who would talk.
"Agent Norton was reassigned six months ago," the woman said. "Your family's case was marked inactive. No ongoing threats."
"What does that mean for our protection status?"
"Technically, you're still in the program. But with minimal oversight."
Minimal oversight meant Michael could operate without federal babysitters watching his every move.
Her phone rang. Michael.
"Hey. Just checking in."
Amanda's throat felt tight. "Where are you?"
"Meeting ran long. Won't be home until this afternoon."
"With your investment advisor?"
A pause. "Yeah. Portfolio management stuff."
Michael didn't have investments beyond their joint retirement account. Another lie to add to the growing list.
"Okay," she said. "I'll see you tonight."
"Amanda? Everything all right?"
"Just tired."
She hung up before he could push further. Her husband was lying, but she needed proof before confronting him.
---
The clerk at the downtown hardware store was a teenager who looked bored until Amanda showed him the credit card statement.
"That's a weird combination," he said, reading the purchase list. "Rope, tarps, zip ties, burner phones." He looked up at her. "Your husband planning a camping trip?"
"Something like that."
"We get a lot of customers buying stuff like this. Usually contractors or..." He shrugged. "People who don't want to be tracked."
People like criminals. People like her husband used to be.
---
Amanda drove to the address she'd found in Michael's old files. A storage facility in El Burro Heights where they kept seasonal decorations and childhood keepsakes.
Or so she'd thought.
Unit 47 contained more than Christmas trees and photo albums. Tactical gear hung from hooks on the walls. Weapons cases stacked in corners. Communications equipment she recognized from Michael's old crew days.
A corkboard covered one wall, filled with surveillance photos and building schematics. Three men she recognized from news reports years ago: Franklin Clinton and Trevor Philips. Michael's former partners.
The ones who'd supposedly died in the final heist that put Michael in witness protection.
Except they were clearly alive. And Michael was planning something with them.
Amanda photographed everything, her hands shaking. Her husband hadn't just returned to his old life. He'd reunited with his old crew.
---
Dr. Friedlander's receptionist was professionally polite when Amanda arrived without an appointment.
"I'm Michael De Santa's wife. I'm concerned about his treatment progress."
"I can't discuss patient information without—"
"I'm not asking for details. I just need to know if he's been honest about his recent activities."
The receptionist glanced toward the doctor's office. "Dr. Friedlander is with a patient, but if you could wait—"
"Has my husband mentioned returning to his previous line of work?"
The woman's expression shifted. "Mrs. De Santa, perhaps you should speak with your husband directly."
Which meant yes. Michael had been discussing criminal activity during therapy sessions.
---
Amanda sat in her car outside their house and called her sister in Arizona.
"Sarah, I need to ask you something. If I sent the kids to visit next week, could they stay for a while?"
"How long is a while?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe a few weeks."
"Amanda, what's wrong?"
Amanda stared at their perfect house. Manicured lawn. Three-car garage. Swimming pool. Everything Michael's witness protection money had bought them.
"I think Michael's going back to his old life," she said.
Silence. Then Sarah's voice, careful and controlled: "Are you sure?"
"He's meeting with his old partners. Planning something big."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. But I need the kids somewhere safe."
"Send them tomorrow. I'll handle the arrangements."
Amanda hung up and walked inside. The house felt like a museum now. Beautiful artifacts from a life that might be ending.
She found Michael's laptop in his office and tried to access it. Password protected, but she knew her husband. He'd use something sentimental.
TRACEY2001. His daughter's name and birth year.
The laptop opened to his email. Messages from equipment suppliers. Encrypted communications with unknown contacts. Flight schedules and hotel reservations for cities she'd never heard of.
Her husband was planning to disappear. The question was whether he intended to take his family with him.
Amanda printed everything and locked the documents in her personal safe. Then she booked airline tickets for her children.
If Michael was returning to his criminal life, she'd make sure Tracey and Jimmy weren't around to get hurt when it all fell apart.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Michael: *Home by six. Dinner together?*
She stared at the message and typed back: *Looking forward to it.*
But she wasn't looking forward to anything anymore. She was planning for survival.