Chapter 4 - The Price of Silence
The numbers on the bank statement blurred together into a meaningless smear of ink.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
My sister, who had always complained about barely making rent on her boutique and constantly asked me to spot her fifty dollars for groceries, had a quarter of a million dollars sitting in a secret account funded by Dante Moretti.
“This has to be a mistake,” I whispered, shaking my head as the horrifying puzzle pieces began to slam together in my mind. “Amy didn't have that kind of money. She drove an eight-year-old sedan with a busted muffler! She couldn't even afford her own health insurance!”
“People don't take a quarter of a million dollars from a syndicate like Moretti Logistics for nothing, Chloe,” Sarah said, her voice laced with grim certainty. “They take it as an advance. Or a payoff.”
From the examination table behind us, a small, whimpering sound cut through our conversation.
I spun around. Sophia had pulled the foil blanket up to her chin, her little body trembling violently. Her eyes weren't looking at us anymore; they were fixed on the small television mounted in the corner of the hospital cubicle, where a local afternoon news broadcast was flashing an urgent breaking-up banner.
“DEVELOPING STORY: Authorities in Charlotte have identified the victim in today’s brutal South End homicide as local resident Kevin Vance...”
The news anchor’s voice droned on, accompanied by B-roll footage of police tape strung across my sister’s front porch. Then the anchor switched to a secondary photograph—a picture of a woman smiling brightly in front of an art gallery.
My sister, Amy.
“...meanwhile, federal investigators confirm they are searching for a missing woman believed to be connected to the incident. Police urge anyone with information regarding Amy Parker’s whereabouts to contact the sheriff’s department immediately.”
“She’s not missing,” I whispered, staring numbly at the screen.
Sarah frowned, stepping closer. “What did you say?”
“She’s not missing, Sarah,” I repeated, a cold, sickening clarity washing over me. “Amy didn't run away. She didn't get kidnapped by some random criminal. She sold us out.”
Before Sarah could ask what I meant, the heavy fire doors at the end of the hospital hallway banged open with a loud, metallic crash. Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed across the polished floors—not the casual stroll of hospital staff, but the heavy, deliberate march of armed tactical officers.
A nurse gasped in the hallway, followed by the sharp, authoritative voice of a hospital administrator trying to block someone’s path.
“Sir, you cannot enter this ward! This is a restricted pediatric zone!”
“Try and stop me, and you’ll spend the rest of your career filing parking tickets in rural Alaska,” a deep, chillingly calm male voice replied.
My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. I had never heard it in person before, but the cold, absolute authority behind it matched the photograph sitting on the medical tray.
May you like
Dante Moretti had just walked into the hospital.
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