Chapter 10: The Call to the Judge
The heavy copper kettle whistled softly on the stainless-steel stove, a gentle steam curling up into the high cedar rafters of the lodge kitchen. Julian poured boiling water into a white ceramic French press, the rich aroma of dark-roast coffee filling the room. He handed me a steaming mug with both hands, his fingers brushing against mine for a fraction of a second.
"Judge Holloway is on his way," Julian said, sliding his phone across the wooden counter. The screen glowed with a confirmed GPS ping. "He's driving up from the county seat himself. He said if the signatures in your father's ledger match the corporate buyout filings from five years ago, he'll sign an emergency injunction before the stock market opens on Monday."
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic mug, letting the heat seep into my skin. "And Marcus?"
"Marcus will be served with a federal subpoena before noon," Julian said, leaning against the counter opposite me. He crossed his arms over his chest, the intricate black tattoos stark against the sleeves of his shirt. "Once that injunction is filed, his assets are frozen. He won't be able to move a dime or silence a single witness without triggering a federal audit."
"It feels too easy," I whispered, staring into the dark coffee. "Five years of hiding, five years of looking over my shoulder, and it ends with a phone call and a judge?"
"It's not ending easily, Rosa," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that forced me to look up into his intense eyes. "You lost your father. You lost your home, your name, everything you built. I lost my uncle, and I spent five years blaming the wrong ghost. Getting justice isn't an easy ending—it's just the beginning of us cleaning up the wreckage."
The front door chimed softly as a sensor registered motion on the front porch. Miller's voice crackled through the intercom system mounted by the pantry door. "Boss, the judge's car just cleared the outer gate. Escorting him to the front entrance now."
Julian nodded once toward the intercom, never breaking eye contact with me. He reached over the counter, his large hand resting gently over mine where I held the coffee mug.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
May you like
I took a slow, deep breath, tasting the lingering scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke in the air. For the first time in five years, the knot of fear in my chest loosened completely. I pulled the battered, fire-scarred ledger out of my purse and laid it flat on the gleaming stainless-steel counter between us.
"Let's finish it," I said.
