Chapter 4: The Forty-Thousand-Dollar Paper Trail
The blue light of the monitor flickered against the dark wood of Clara's desk as I scrolled through the scanned property deeds. The parcels weren't residential; they were a string of abandoned logging tracks running parallel to the river basin, all transferred through a shell corporation registered out of Carson City. But the signature on the notarized transfer wasn't corporate. It belonged to Arthur Vance, the current county commissioner and a man who had shaken my hand at the local diner three days after Clara went missing, offering empty condolences about the hardships of single fatherhood.
My phone vibrated against the desk. I pulled it out, seeing an unknown local number flashing on the screen. I swiped to answer, bringing the phone slowly to my ear without speaking.
"You're looking in the wrong drawer, Mr. Miller," a gravelly voice rasped through the static. "The deeds don't tell you who holds the keys to the back gate."
My grip tightened on the edge of the mahogany desk until the wood groaned. "Who is this?"
"Someone who knows why your wife stopped answering her phone fourteen months ago," the voice replied, unhurried, dripping with a quiet confidence that made my teeth grind. "She thought she could shake the tree without getting hit by the apples. You keep digging into Vance's filings, and the girls won't just have a mother who's missing—they'll have a father behind bars for things he didn't do."
"Try me," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, level whisper. "I'm already standing in the house where your scout left his lighter."
A short, dry laugh came through the speaker before the line went dead with a sharp click.
I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen as it faded to black. The stakes had just shifted entirely. This wasn't a random drifter squatting in an old root cellar; it was an active intimidation campaign tied directly to local government corruption, and they knew every move I made before I made it.
I stood up from the desk, grabbing my heavy black jacket from the back of the chair and slipping it on. I checked the Makarov pistol tucked into my holster beneath my arm, ensuring the safety was off and a round was chambered. Fourteen months of grief had just hardened into absolute resolve.
I walked out of the study and headed down the long hallway toward the back mudroom that led out to the gravel drive. As I passed the grand staircase, Elena appeared on the landing above, her hand resting on the polished banister. Her eyes met mine through the dim light of the hallway sconces.
"The girls are locked in the playroom with their books," she whispered down to me. "Where are you going, Chris?"
May you like
"To check the gatehouse," I said, adjusting the cuffs of my suit jacket. "Lock the iron security gate behind me. If I'm not back by dark, call Marcus at the state police barracks—not the local sheriff."
Elena didn't ask questions. She simply nodded, her jaw set with the same quiet grit that had kept this household running while the world outside fell apart. I turned and stepped out into the chill evening air, ready to meet whoever was waiting in the dark.
