Chapter 2 - The Man in the TrunkThomas Bell had disappeared eight months ago. Someone had just knocked from inside my BMW.
I didn't open the trunk.
Not immediately.
I stood there holding the flash drive while every instinct in my body screamed at me to run.
The BMW sat in the middle of my garage beneath the fluorescent lights, its cracked paint and dented hood suddenly making it look less like an abandoned car and more like a coffin someone had forgotten to bury.
The trunk knocked again.
Three times.
Then silence.
I grabbed the tire iron from beside the workbench.
I approached slowly.
The trunk had opened only two inches.
I raised it.
Nothing.
Empty.
Spare tire.
Jack.
Old blanket.
No person.
No body.
No monster waiting to tear my throat out.
I exhaled.
Then I saw the blood.
A thin smear ran along the inside edge of the trunk.
Fresh.
I nearly dropped the tire iron.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
UNKNOWN:
DON'T TRUST THE POLICE.
Another message arrived.
THEY HAVE A COPY OF THE KEY.
I looked at the BMW.
Then the door to my garage.
Locked.
I checked the street through the window again.
The parked sedan was still there.
Except now its engine was running.
I grabbed the flash drive, the envelope, and Thomas's photograph.
I left through the back door.
Two blocks away, I ducked into a diner and sat in the corner booth.
My hands still trembled.
I plugged the flash drive into my laptop.
Nothing happened.
No files.
No folders.
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Thomas Bell had vanished because he knew how to protect information.
I opened the drive's properties.
It showed a single encrypted file.
THOMAS_BELL_0817.
Password required.
I stared at the screen.
Then remembered something.
Three years ago, when Thomas and I had worked together, he had a habit of using obscure accounting references as passwords.
I typed:
KANE1998.
Wrong.
BELL1999.
Wrong.
The day Richard hired me.
Wrong.
I leaned back.
Then I remembered a conversation we'd had after midnight one winter.
Thomas had told me:
“If I ever disappear, don't search for my birthday.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone searches dates. Search mistakes.”
I smiled.
A mistake.
A number.
Something Richard had entered wrong.
I began thinking about the old Kane Automotive accounts.
Consulting invoices.
Shell companies.
Transfer dates.
I typed:
The file opened.
My smile disappeared.
There were sixty-three documents.
Bank statements.
Scanned contracts.
Photographs.
Audio recordings.
And a spreadsheet.
I opened the spreadsheet.
The title was:
PROJECT BLACKWELL.
Twenty-seven shell companies.
$48,700,000 transferred.
Not stolen.
Transferred.
Systematically.
From Kane Automotive Group into private accounts.
But that wasn't the shocking part.
The money had been moving to the same destination.
A company called Bellgrave Holdings.
Owned by someone named Richard Kane.
I scrolled.
Then stopped.
One transaction caught my eye.
$500,000.
Eight months ago.
Destination:
BELLGRAVE HOLDINGS.
Description:
FINAL PAYMENT.
I looked at the envelope sitting beside my coffee.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
Then I opened another file.
It was a scanned photograph of a warehouse.
I recognized it immediately.
Kane Automotive's private storage facility.
In the photograph, Richard Kane stood beside two men.
One was Derek.
The other was Thomas.
Thomas looked terrified.
Richard was holding a gun.
I zoomed in.
The time stamp was visible.
August 17.
The day Thomas supposedly stole $500,000 and disappeared.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown:
NOW YOU KNOW WHY HE DISAPPEARED.
Then:
BUT YOU STILL DON'T KNOW WHO DIED.
I stared at the message.
A new file appeared on the flash drive.
It had not been there before.
A video.
I clicked it.
Static.
Then Thomas appeared on screen.
He was sitting in a dark room.
His face was bruised.
His shirt was torn.
He looked directly into the camera.
“Evan, if you're seeing this, I failed.”
I leaned closer.
Thomas continued.
“Richard knows about the money. He knows about the accounts. But that's not the real reason he wants the BMW.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“He wants what is hidden inside the driver's side door.”
My heart stopped.
Thomas continued.
“The person who gets that evidence won't just expose Richard.”
He paused.
“They'll expose everyone above him.”
The video ended.
I sat completely still.
Everyone above him?
Richard Kane had connections.
Board members.
Bankers.
Lawyers.
Investors.
But everyone?
My phone buzzed again.
This time it wasn't a text.
It was a photo.
The photograph showed my apartment building.
Taken from across the street.
A red circle marked my window.
Then another message appeared.
“You have ten minutes.”
I stood up.
I left cash on the table and ran outside.
A black SUV was parked across from the diner.
The back door opened.
I stopped.
A woman stepped out.
Blonde hair.
Gray coat.
Dark sunglasses.
She looked directly at me.
Then removed the glasses.
I knew her.
Everyone in Kane Automotive knew her.
Melissa Bell.
Thomas Bell's wife.
The woman who had identified his body after he supposedly died.
Except the body had never been publicly shown.
Melissa walked toward me.
Her face was pale.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Evan.”
“How are you alive?”
She looked toward the SUV.
Then back at me.
“I'm not the person you need to ask that question to.”
“Who?”
Melissa took my arm.
“Your BMW.”
I stared at her.
She whispered:
“Because Thomas never owned it.”
A car screeched around the corner.
Melissa shoved me down.
A gunshot shattered the diner window.
Glass exploded over the pavement.
Melissa grabbed my hand.
“Run!”
We sprinted into an alley.
Another gunshot cracked behind us.
May you like
Then Melissa said the words that changed everything.
“The BMW belonged to Richard Kane's first victim.”
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