Chapter 7 - The MessageWe drove through the night, the headlights of my truck slicing through the thick fog of the Appalachian Mountains. Amy sat in the passenger seat, gripping my hand, while Frederick slept soundly in the back. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. The fear hanging in the air was loud enough.
We arrived at Marcus's cabin just before dawn. It was secluded, heavily wooded, and invisible from the main highway. For the first time in 24 hours, I felt my muscles unlock.
We spent the next two days in hiding. It felt like holding our breath, waiting for a bomb to go off.
On the third day, the bomb detonated.
Marcus arrived at the cabin just after noon, his usually stoic face drawn and pale. He didn't even bother saying hello; he just walked straight to the kitchen table, opened his laptop, and turned it to face us.
"I told you they send messages," Marcus said grimly.
On the screen was a live feed from my home security system back in Nashville. Or at least, what was left of it.
The front door of my house had been kicked off its hinges. The beautiful leather sectionals were slashed to ribbons. The walls were spray-painted with a single, massive number in blood-red paint: $300,000.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The camera angle shifted to the backyard—the same backyard where my mother had thrown her lavish party. The massive, beautiful oak tree that Amy had loved so much, the one I had built a tire swing on for Frederick, was engulfed in flames.
Amy gasped, covering her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. "Our home... Connor, they destroyed our home."
I stared at the screen, a dark, dangerous fury overriding my fear. "Did the police catch them?"
"The local cops are writing it off as vandalism and arson," Marcus said, rubbing his temples. "They have no leads. The men who did this wore masks and drove a stolen vehicle. But we know who ordered it."
"Vance," I spat.
"Yes. And Connor, it gets worse." Marcus pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket. "This was left on the windshield of my car this morning. At the FBI field office."
He slid the paper across the table. It was a photograph of Amy and me walking out of the hospital a week ago, holding Frederick. Stamped across Amy's face was a red target. Written on the back were three words: Pay the debt.
They knew where we were. They knew who Marcus was. They were untouchable.
"We can't hide forever," Amy whispered, her voice trembling. "Connor, we have the $250,000 you recovered from your mother. Maybe we should just... give it to him. Borrow the rest. Pay him off so he leaves us alone."
"No," I said firmly, standing up from the table. "If we pay him, we legitimize the debt. He'll know he can squeeze us. He'll come back for more. These people never stop."
"Then what do we do?" Marcus asked, crossing his arms.
I looked at my college roommate, the gears in my head turning at a frantic pace. "Marcus, you're a forensic accountant for the FBI. You track dirty money for a living. Tell me you still have Brenda's black ledger."
May you like
Marcus frowned. "I have copies of it. The original is in evidence. Why?"
"Because," I said, a grim smile creeping onto my face. "My mother was making direct payments to Arthur Vance. She had account routing numbers, wire transfer receipts, and names of shell companies. Vance is sloppy. I don't want to hide from him. I want to ruin him."
Related Stories
