Chapter 9 - The Ghost of the Past
The morning sun over the coast was bright, but it carried none of the oppressive, suffocating heat that had haunted my nightmares for months. I sat on the porch of my new seaside cottage, nursing my coffee, when a car engine hummed up the gravel driveway.
A sleek black sedan parked near the steps. The door opened, and Detective Hayes stepped out, holding a thick Manila envelope.
"Arthur," Hayes called out, walking up the wooden stairs. "Hope I'm not interrupting your retirement."
"Not at all, Detective," I replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from me. "What brings you all the way out to the coast? Have Julian and Grant found new ways to complain about prison food?"
Hayes chuckled darkly, sitting down and sliding the envelope across the table. "Not quite. But something interesting turned up during the final deep-dive into Julian Vance's personal safety deposit box at the downtown Federal Reserve."
I opened the envelope. Inside were several old, yellowed photographs and a handwritten letter dated nearly thirty years ago. The handwriting belonged to my late wife, Ruth.
May you like
"What is this?" I asked, my chest tightening slightly as I looked at a picture of a younger Ruth standing outside a courthouse, holding a baby, alongside a man whose face had been torn away from the photograph.
"That," Hayes said quietly, "is the real reason Julian and your son-in-law targeted you, Arthur. It goes much deeper than corporate greed."
