Chapter 2 - The Chain of Custody
The air in the diner went from the stale smell of old grease to something thin and cold, like the pressure drop before a thunderstorm.
Travis dropped his hands to his sides, his bravado thinning out as he realized the two black SUVs idling outside weren't local police cruisers. Through the plate-glass window, four more men in utility uniforms had stepped out, standing at parade rest beside the front bumpers with their hands clasped behind their backs. They weren't armed for riot control; they were carrying field-grade data kits and secure comms gear.
"You're bluffing," Travis muttered, though his voice lacked its earlier bite. He looked at the sheriff for reinforcement, but Harper was staring at the floor, his face the color of wet plaster. "My dad’s lawyers own every deed between here and Wilmington. You can't just walk in here with a rented uniform and—"
"Major Vance," I said, cutting him off. "Execute order nine-zero-four. Secure the premises under federal asset preservation protocols."
"Already done, Colonel," Vance replied smoothly.
He didn't wait for Harper or Travis to object. He pulled a heavy tactical tablet from his leather satchel, tapped the screen twice, and laid it face-up on the laminate counter next to my mother’s napkin dispenser.
On the screen was a live satellite feed of the county clerk’s office four blocks away. Two men in dark suits—neither of them local—were walking through the public records room with a federal magistrate's warrant tucked into a clear plastic folder.
"You can't seize county records!" Harper barked, his face finally flushing red as he lunged forward.
Major Vance didn't draw a weapon. He simply raised his left hand, his forearm blocking Harper’s path with the immovable mass of a hydraulic piston. The sheriff bounced back against a table of empty coffee mugs, knocking one to the floor where it shattered against the tiles.
"Sheriff," Vance said, his voice dropping an octave into the register officers used when they were done talking to enlisted personnel who had lost their minds. "You filed an incident report on October twelfth, six years ago, stating that Julian Bennett’s vehicle left the roadway due to driver fatigue on a dry stretch of state route nine. You listed no mechanical inspection, no brake skid analysis, and no independent witness testimony."
My mother let out a low, ragged sound from behind the counter.
"I remember that report," I said, my voice dangerously level. "Because I drove out to the site two days after the funeral. The shoulder was chewed up by dual-wheel tracks—the kind left by a heavy gravel hauler owned by Cain Construction."
May you like
Travis’s throat clicked as he swallowed hard. "Accidents happen on that road all the time. Everyone knows it’s a blind curve."
"It’s not a blind curve, Travis," I whispered, leaning across the counter until I was inches from his face. "It’s a thirty-degree straightaway with a four-foot drainage ditch. You can see half a mile in either direction."
