Michael pulled into his driveway at six fifteen. Amanda's car sat in its usual spot. The house looked normal. Porch lights on. Kitchen window glowing yellow.
He sat in his car for thirty seconds, watching for movement. Paranoia had become second nature. Every shadow could hide surveillance. Every parked car might contain watchers.
The front door opened before he reached it.
"You're late," Amanda said.
"Traffic." Michael kissed her cheek. Her skin felt cold. "Something smells good."
"Chicken marsala. Your favorite."
They walked to the kitchen together. The table was set for two. Candles flickered between wine glasses. Too formal for a Wednesday night.
"Where are the kids?" Michael asked.
"Jimmy's at a friend's house. Tracey has study group."
Michael pulled out his chair. "Convenient."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just nice to have dinner alone."
Amanda poured wine and sat across from him. Her movements were precise. Controlled. Like she was following a script.
---
Amanda watched Michael cut his chicken. His hands were steady. No nervous tremors. No signs of guilt or anxiety.
Fifteen years of marriage to a professional criminal had taught her to read people. Michael was performing. Playing the role of concerned husband.
"How was your day?" she asked.
"Good. Productive meetings."
"With your investment advisor?"
Michael chewed slowly. "Among others."
"What's his name?"
A pause. "Richards. Solomon Richards."
Amanda knew that name. A film producer Michael had worked with during his retirement phase. Not a financial advisor.
"Didn't he produce that movie you consulted on?" she asked.
Michael's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Different guy. Common name."
Another lie. Smooth and practiced.
"What kind of investments are you considering?" Amanda sipped her wine. "I should know about major financial decisions."
"Nothing major. Just diversifying the portfolio."
"We don't have a portfolio, Michael. We have a savings account and your government pension."
---
Michael set down his fork. Amanda was fishing. Testing his story for holes.
"Since when are you interested in our finances?" he asked.
"Since you started making mysterious cash withdrawals and buying surveillance equipment."
The words hit like cold water. Michael forced his expression to remain neutral.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Parabolic microphones. Night vision scopes. GPS trackers." Amanda's voice stayed level. "All charged to our credit card."
Michael's mind raced. How had she tracked his purchases? He'd been careful. Used different stores. Spread the transactions across time.
"Research," he said. "For the movie consulting work."
"What movie?"
"Independent project. Documentary about security systems."
Amanda nodded slowly. "That explains the rope and zip ties too, I suppose."
Michael's chest tightened. She'd been thorough. Very thorough.
"Props," he said. "For demonstration purposes."
---
Amanda cut another piece of chicken and chewed it slowly. Michael was scrambling. Making up explanations as she presented evidence.
"I called your therapist's office today," she said.
Michael went still. "Why?"
"I was concerned. You've been distracted. Moody. Missing family events."
"What did they tell you?"
"They can't discuss patient information. But they suggested I talk to you directly about your recent activities."
Michael drank wine and said nothing.
"Are you planning to leave witness protection?" Amanda asked.
"No."
"Because that would violate our agreement. The one where you promised to stay retired for the sake of our family."
Michael met her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Then explain the maps in our safe deposit box. The building schematics. The photos of Franklin Clinton and Trevor Philips."
---
The wine turned to acid in Michael's stomach. Amanda had accessed their safe deposit box. Seen everything he'd hidden there.
"I can explain—"
"Can you? Because those men are supposed to be dead. Killed in the heist that put you in witness protection." Amanda's voice hardened. "Unless that was another lie."
Michael stared at his plate. The food had lost all taste.
"They survived," he said quietly.
"And you've been in contact with them."
"Occasionally."
"Occasionally." Amanda repeated the word like it was poison. "For six months you've been lying to me about everything."
"Not everything."
"Really? Name one true thing you've told me since Christmas."
Michael thought. Every conversation had contained deceptions. Small lies building into larger ones.
"I love you," he said.
"Do you? Or do you love the cover story I provide?"
---
Amanda watched emotions flicker across Michael's face. Guilt. Fear. Something that might have been genuine remorse.
"I never wanted to drag you back into this," he said.
"Back into what?"
"The life. The business."
"What business, Michael?"
He was silent for a long time. Candle flames reflected in his wine glass.
"Someone's blackmailing us," he said finally. "Threatening to expose everything if we don't do a job."
"What kind of job?"
"Corporate espionage. Data theft."
Amanda felt cold despite the warm kitchen. "How dangerous?"
"Very."
"And you agreed to do it."
"We don't have a choice."
Amanda stood and began clearing dishes. Her movements were sharp. Angry.
"There's always a choice, Michael."
---
Michael watched his wife move around the kitchen. Her back rigid. Shoulders set.
"If those photos go public, we lose everything," he said. "The house. The kids' college funds. Our entire life."
"We already lost our life. The real one." Amanda turned to face him. "This is just a performance we've been giving for fifteen years."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Doesn't it? You're planning another heist. Reuniting with your criminal partners. How is that different from before?"
Michael had no answer. Because it wasn't different. Not really.
"I sent the kids away," Amanda said.
"What?"
"Tracey and Jimmy. They're flying to Arizona tomorrow to stay with Sarah."
Michael stood. "You can't—"
"I can and I did. If you're determined to destroy this family, I won't let them get caught in the crossfire."
---
Amanda faced her husband across their kitchen. The man she'd loved for fifteen years. The father of her children. The criminal who'd lied to her about everything that mattered.
"I want details," she said. "Everything. No more lies."
"It's better if you don't know."
"That's not your decision anymore."
Michael ran his hands through his hair. "Corporate data center. Maze Bank Tower. We go in, steal financial records, get out."
"Who's paying you?"
"We don't know. Anonymous contact."
"How much?"
"Two million."
Amanda felt dizzy. "Each?"
"Total."
"That's not enough money to justify this risk."
Michael laughed bitterly. "Since when are you an expert on risk assessment?"
"Since I married a bank robber and spent fifteen years learning to survive in your world."
She walked to the window and looked out at their backyard. Pool lights reflected on the water. Everything perfect and artificial.
"What happens after?" she asked.
"We complete the job and disappear. New identities. New location."
"All of us?"
"If you want."
Amanda turned back to him. "And if I don't want?"
Michael was quiet.
"I see." Amanda nodded. "So my choices are run with you or lose my family forever."
"Amanda—"
"Get out."
"What?"
"Leave. Tonight. Don't come back until you decide what matters more. Your family or your criminal friends."
---
Michael stared at his wife. Her face was calm but her hands shook.
"You don't understand the situation—"
"I understand perfectly. You chose crime over family. Again."
"That's not—"
"Get out, Michael."
He wanted to argue. Explain the pressure they were under. The impossible position someone had put them in.
But Amanda was right. He'd made his choice the moment he agreed to meet Franklin and Trevor. Everything since then had been justification.
Michael walked to the hallway and grabbed his keys from the table.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he said.
"Don't."
"Amanda—"
"I said don't."
Michael opened the front door and paused. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did anyway."
He walked to his car without looking back. The house grew smaller in his rearview mirror until it disappeared entirely.
Michael drove toward downtown Los Santos with nowhere to go and no one to call except the two men who'd helped destroy his life the first time.
His phone buzzed with a text from Amanda: *I changed the locks. Don't try to come home until you're ready to choose us.*
Michael tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and pressed the accelerator. Behind him, the lights of Rockford Hills faded into darkness .