Chapter 3 - The Dinner Invitation
"How did you find this number?" I demanded, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp growl as I slammed the accordion folder shut.
Reagan let out a light, mocking laugh on the other end of the line. "Please, Finnley. Do you honestly think a three-year stint in a medium-security cell turned you into an international spy? Carter saw you lingering near the neighborhood gates an hour ago. We know you went to the cemetery. We know you talked to the old groundskeeper."
"You murdered him, Reagan," I said, every word vibrating with lethal restraint. "You and Carter poisoned my father for control of the company."
The line went silent for three seconds. When Reagan spoke again, all pretense of polite suburban elegance had vanished from her voice, replaced by cold, calculating malice.
"He was a stubborn, dying old man who refused to sign over the final voting shares to Carter," Reagan hissed. "He brought this on himself, just like you brought your prison sentence on yourself. Now, here's how this plays out: You take whatever pathetic belongings are in that backpack, you get on a bus, and you disappear across state lines. If you ever show your face in Silver Lake again, we won't just call the police. We’ll make sure your parole violation sends you back to Oakwood for the rest of your natural life."
"Try it," I replied evenly. "I have the toxicology reports, Reagan. I have Carter’s forged bank transfers. The police are already reviewing the file."
This time, Reagan didn't laugh. Instead, the line clicked, and a second later, my phone pinged with an incoming multimedia message.
I opened the attachment.
It was a live security camera screenshot of Martha Doyle—our elderly former housekeeper who had tried to warn me about my father's health before I went to prison—tied to a chair in what looked like the basement of our old family home, a gag wrapped tightly around her mouth.
"Martha sends her regards," Reagan whispered chillingly. "If you want her to see tomorrow sunrise, you'll be standing on our front porch in twenty minutes. Alone. No police. No copies. Just you and the documents."
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. They were setting a trap. They knew I had something from the storage unit, and they were willing to use hostages to get it back.
May you like
I packed the accordion folder and the flash drive into my backpack, slipped my mother's leather journal inside my jacket, and walked out of the vault facility into the cold night air.
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