Chapter 7 - Pressure and Choice
The dashboard clock glowed 9:42 PM. The digital numbers felt like a countdown to something I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
"My father's wall safe isn't in the study," I said, looking out through the windshield at the dark outline of the community center roof. "It's behind the faux paneling in the old pantry off the kitchen. He installed it back when he retired from the shipyard."
"Can you get in without tripping the house alarm?" Vance asked, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel.
"The alarm code was my mother's birthday," I replied bitterly. "Gladys probably changed it to her own, but my father is stubborn. He hates modern electronics. He kept the mechanical backup key hanging on a nail inside the fuse box in the garage."
"That means going back inside," Vance noted. "Hayes is likely still there, debriefing your stepmother or trying to salvage whatever operational cover they have left."
"Which is why we wait until they leave," I said, my gaze narrowing as I spotted a pair of headlights turn onto my father’s street. Through the windshield, we watched Gladys’s late-model SUV back out of the driveway with sharp, jerky movements, its tires spraying gravel. A second later, a sleek, unmarked black sedan pulled out right behind her, tailing closely.
"They're heading toward the county highway," Vance observed, putting the sedan into drive with a soft mechanical hum. "Looks like a meeting."
"Or a relocation," I added. "Gladys wouldn't leave the house unless Hayes forced her to move the remaining records. He knows the digital trail is hot; if there are paper ledgers left in that safe, that's where they're going."
"Then we have a choice," Vance said, his eyes locking onto mine in the dim dashboard light. "We can follow them, tail their vehicle, and try to catch them in the act of destroying evidence out in the open—which gives us a clear criminal hand to play. Or we can break into the house right now, grab the safe contents before they realize we're onto it, and secure our own evidence."
The weight of the decision settled squarely on my shoulders. If we followed them, we risked losing the physical proof hidden inside the house if Hayes had already cleaned it out. But if we went back into the house and found the safe empty, we would be walking blindly into an ambush without a single card left to play.
"We split the difference," I said, reaching for the door handle. "You take the car, tail Hayes and Gladys, and find out where they're storing the secondary files. I'll go back into the house, clear the safe, and meet you at the old marina by the river in forty minutes."
Vance frowned, his brow furrowing in disagreement. "That violates every protocol in the book, Lieutenant. I'm not dropping an operative into a compromised zone alone."
"I grew up in that house, Commander," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I know every squeaky floorboard, every blind spot in the hallway, and every lock my father ever installed. You don't. If Hayes spots two Navy officers tailing him, he'll burn the evidence before we reach the highway. Let me do my job."
For a long moment, Vance studied my face, weighing the tactical risk against the reality of the terrain. Finally, he gave a sharp, reluctant nod.
May you like
"Forty minutes, Miller," he said, pulling the shifter down. "If you aren't at the marina by midnight, I'm calling in federal marshals, protocol be damned."
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