Chapter 5: The Highway Gas Station
Saturday morning arrived with a thin, brittle frost coating the grass blades along the property line, but by ten o'clock the sun had burned it away, leaving the air dry and clear. Mr. Vance had left before dawn for a regional corporate conference three counties over, his black sedan kicking up gravel down the long driveway. The heavy silence that settled over the house felt less like peace and more like the weighted pause before a storm. I waited until the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway droned into a steady, reliable rhythm before I went to my room, unzipped my floral backpack, and pulled out the bank ledger wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.
My bicycle tires crunched against the asphalt as I pedaled hard down the county road, the cold wind biting at my cheeks. My legs burned with an effort that felt entirely out of proportion to the distance, but every shadow cast by the telephone poles seemed to stretch out like an arm trying to pull me back. I needed to reach the highway gas station before noon.
The station sat at the intersection of Route 9 and the bypass, a squat brick building with yellow pumps and a buzzing soda machine out front. A rusted pickup truck idled near the air compressor, exhaust pluming into the chill air, but otherwise the asphalt expanse was empty. I coasted to a halt beside the ice machine, my boots hitting the pavement with a sharp tap.
Ethan was already there. He sat on a red plastic crate near the vending machines, wearing his navy blue zip-up hoodie pulled tight against the breeze, his khaki pants dusty at the cuffs. When he saw me drop my bike kickstand, he stood up quickly, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the highway before focusing on me. He didn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction.
"You made it," Ethan said, his voice low as he stepped away from the glare of the convenience store window. "Was he still sleeping when you left?"
"He's gone," I said, my breath fogging between us. I pulled my floral backpack off my shoulder, unzipped the main compartment with stiff fingers, and slid the plastic-wrapped ledger out into his hands. "He went to the conference in Richmond. He won't be back until Sunday night."
Ethan took the package, his fingers brushing against the crinkling plastic. He didn't open it right away. He looked at the thick spine of the book, then up at my face, reading the exhaustion in the dark circles under my eyes.
"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, using my name with a quiet certainty that made my throat tighten.
"It's not just the cash you gave me," I said, glancing over my shoulder toward the highway where a semi-truck roared past, drowning out the ambient hum of the soda machine compressors. "I found where he keeps the real records. The bank statements, the transfer slips from the foundation accounts, everything. He's been draining the trust my parents left. Not just borrowing it—he's hiding the whole thing under dummy corporations."
Ethan finally pulled back the plastic wrapping, flipping the cover of the ledger to reveal columns of precise, damning numbers penned in black ink. His brow furrowed as his eyes tracked down the page, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had always been steady, older than his twelve years in the way he carried the weight of things, but the sight of the financial trail seemed to shock even him.
"This is real money," Ethan murmured, turning another page. "Federal level real."
"I have enough packed in my room," I said, my voice dropping to a hurried whisper as a car pulled up to the opposite pump. "I can take my bike and ride north toward my aunt's place in Delaware. If I leave tonight, before he gets back, I can—"
"No," Ethan interrupted, looking up sharply from the pages. He closed the ledger and held it firmly between both hands, pressing it against his chest. "No, Sarah, you can't run."
"Why not?" My voice cracked, the frustration and fear boiling over into a sharp spike of anger. "You saw what he is. If I stay, he's going to find out I was in his study. He checks those files every week. If I leave now, I'm out before he can trap me again."
"Because running away means you're the one who looks guilty," Ethan said, his tone unwavering, brooking no argument despite the difference in our ages. He stepped closer, his brown eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that forced me to be quiet. "If you disappear with a bike and a backpack, he'll call the sheriff before you make the county line. He'll tell them you ran off, that you're unstable, and they'll bring you right back to him. And once you're back, he'll lock those doors for good."
The cold reality of his words hit me harder than the wind off the highway. I stared down at my scuffed sneakers, the gravel crunching under my weight. He was right. Mr. Vance owned the town's respect, the local committees, the quiet nods of the deputies who stopped by the house for coffee. To them, he was the grieving uncle taking care of a difficult orphan. I was just a frightened kid.
"Then what do we do?" I whispered, the fight draining out of me, leaving behind a hollow ache. "We can't just leave this book here."
"We don't," Ethan said, sliding the ledger back into its plastic wrap and gently placing it into the front pocket of my floral backpack. He zipped it shut and handed the bag back to me. "We don't run. We gather the rest of the evidence, and we make sure the people who actually have the authority to stop him see it first. Adults who aren't on his payroll."
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"Who?" I asked, looking up as a gust of wind rustled the dry leaves trapped against the curb. "Who is left in this town that he hasn't bought or fooled?"
"We'll find someone," Ethan said quietly, pulling his hood up higher against the wind as the driver of the car at the pump walked inside to pay. "We have until Sunday night. Let's go back and finish copying the rest of the files."
