Chapter 3 - THE GHOST OF MAYA“Get in the car.”
It wasn’t a request. Grant Whitmore scooped Ethan into his arms, shielding the boy’s face from the freezing rain, and marched toward a heavily armored matte-black SUV idling behind the diner.
The two armed men who had been lingering near the entrance were dead, slumped lifelessly against the tires—eliminated by Daniel’s cleanup crew before the real chaos even started. Daniel hadn't just betrayed Grant today; he had been planning this coup for years.
I scrambled into the backseat of the SUV, clutching my bleeding shoulder. The pain was secondary to the rising panic in my chest. Maya. Hearing her name out loud felt like tearing open a stitched wound.
“Talk,” Grant demanded, slamming the driver’s side door and throwing the vehicle into reverse. The tires shrieked, spitting gravel as we tore out onto the highway toward the cliffs overlooking Harbor City. “Who is Maya? And what does she have to do with my logistics network?”
“Maya wasn't just some girl you tangled with in your club days,” I spat, clutching a blood-soaked napkin to my shoulder. “She was your lead financial auditor sixteen years ago. The one who discovered that millions of dollars in syndicate funds were being funneled into offshore accounts under a phantom alias.”
Grant’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned ghostly white. The SUV drifted dangerously close to the median before he corrected it.
“Daniel handled the audit logs back then,” Grant muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “He told me she embezzled the money and fled the country.”
“She didn't flee,” I said, tears blurring my vision as I looked at little Ethan, who had fallen asleep exhausted against my lap. “Daniel cornered her in her apartment. He staged it as an overdose. But before she died, she managed to mail a safety deposit box key to her family. To me.”
Grant fell silent. The windshield wipers slapped rhythmically against the glass, cutting through the dense fog.
“Why now?” Grant asked quietly. “Why come after Ethan?”
“Because Ethan’s music box isn’t just a toy,” I answered, leaning forward. “Maya didn't just find stolen money, Grant. She found proof that Daniel Crane was building a private militia to overthrow you. And she hid the digital ledger inside the mechanical components of a custom music box she built for your newborn son—before Daniel took it and gave it to you as a gift.”
Grant slammed his foot on the brake. The SUV skidded to a halt on the deserted overlook, the dark, churning waves of the Atlantic crashing violently against the cliffs hundreds of feet below.
He turned around in his seat, his eyes blazing with a mixture of grief and pure, unadulterated fury.
May you like
“If Daniel has the music box,” Grant said slowly, “we are all dead men.”
“He doesn't have it,” I said, holding up a small, scratched metal box I had snatched from the diner counter before the glass shattered. “I do.”
