Chapter 2 - The Recording That Should Never Have ExistedI ran until the cemetery disappeared behind the trees.
My lungs burned. Branches scratched my face, and the metal box bounced against my spine. Every few seconds, I looked over my shoulder, expecting Detective Reed to emerge from the darkness with a weapon pointed at my back.
When I finally reached the road, a delivery truck slowed beside me.
The driver took one look at my bloodied face and hit the brakes.
“You need a hospital?”
“No. I need a ride downtown.”
He hesitated.
“Kid, you look like you escaped from a horror movie.”
“That's not far from the truth.”
He let me climb aboard.
I spent the ride staring at my phone, wondering whether Silas was alive. I had no way to contact him. Worse, I couldn't shake the sound of that gunshot.
At the downtown bus terminal, I locked myself inside a restroom stall and examined the contents of the metal box.
Beneath the photograph and envelope lay a flash drive marked with a single word.
ORIGINALS.
The digital recorder was older, with a tiny screen and three buttons. I pressed PLAY.
Static crackled.
Then my father's voice filled the narrow stall.
“Finnley, if you're hearing this, it means I failed to protect you.”
My knees nearly buckled.
It was really him.
“I know what Reagan told everyone. I know what the court believes. But you did not steal the money from Dennis Enterprises. Carter moved it. Someone altered the records, planted evidence in your apartment, and paid witnesses to lie.”
I gripped the recorder so tightly my fingers hurt.
“Your stepmother wasn't acting alone,” Dad continued. “The person directing everything has access to the company accounts, our lawyers, and people inside law enforcement. I tried to expose him. That's why I'm recording this instead of putting it in writing.”
A pause followed, filled with faint breathing.
Then Dad said something that made my blood run cold.
“Whatever happens to me, do not trust the will Reagan presents. I signed another one. The original is hidden where your mother left her last gift.”
The recording clicked off.
I pressed PLAY again, but the device only gave a low battery warning.
My mother's last gift?
She had died when I was sixteen. All she had left me was a small music box, which had vanished from the house after her funeral.
The same house Reagan now claimed belonged to her.
I searched the remaining contents of the metal box and found a second piece of paper tucked behind the recorder's battery cover.
It contained an address and a name.
EVELYN SHAW. ATTORNEY. ASK ABOUT THE MERIDIAN TRUST.
Below it, Dad had written:
She will help you, but only if you can prove you are still the person I raised.
I stared at that final sentence for a long time.
Three years in prison had changed me. I no longer trusted strangers. I slept lightly, flinched at sudden footsteps, and had learned that a desperate man could be manipulated more easily than a greedy one.
Had Dad known what prison would do to me?
Or had he been trying to warn me that the next part of this fight would be even worse?
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number had sent me a photograph.
Silas lay on the chapel floor, his white shirt stained with blood. Someone had placed a folded piece of paper on his chest.
The message underneath read:
YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT DOESN'T BELONG TO YOU. RETURN IT, OR THE NEXT BODY WILL BE YOURS.
I called emergency services immediately, gave them the cemetery's location, and told them a man had been shot.
Then I removed the flash drive from the box, hid it inside the lining of my backpack, and destroyed the SIM card in my phone.
I couldn't tell whether the threat came from Reagan, Carter, Detective Reed, or someone else entirely.
But Dad had given me one place to start.
At sunrise, I stood outside Evelyn Shaw's law office.
A brass plaque beside the door read:
SHAW & ASSOCIATES. ESTATE LAW, CORPORATE LITIGATION.
I knocked.
A woman in her sixties opened the door. Her silver hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head, and she wore the expression of someone who had spent decades listening to people lie.
“Can I help you?”
“I'm Finnley Dennis.”
The moment I said my name, the color drained from her face.
She seized my wrist, pulled me inside, and locked the door.
“Good God,” she whispered. “Camden said you might come.”
She looked toward the street.
Then she turned to me.
“Tell me something, Finnley. Did your father give you a key?”
I showed her the rusted brass key marked 17.
May you like
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“He was right,” she murmured. “They've started killing people.”
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