Chapter 12 - The Durham Warehouse
I didn't call my father. I didn't call Ryan, who was still trying to rebuild his life from a cramped studio apartment two zip codes away. Instead, I drove straight to Durham on a blistering August afternoon to see the warehouse with my own eyes.
The address led me to a decaying industrial park off Interstate 85. Weeds punched through cracks in the asphalt parking lot, and the corrugated metal siding of the building was rusted a deep, bruised orange. A faded vinyl banner hung over the rusted loading dock: Prescott Logistics & Storage – Liquidated.
The property was entirely abandoned.
As I stepped out of my sedan, my heels clicking sharply against the gravel, a battered black pickup truck pulled up beside me. The driver’s door creaked open, and a man in a grease-stained mechanic’s jumpsuit stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Can I help you, miss? Property’s closed. Been locked down by the bank since spring.”
“Are you with the bank?” I asked, keeping my distance.
“Nah, I’m Frank. I used to lease the back bay for my auto repair shop before Arthur Prescott went belly-up and left us all holding an empty bag.” Frank spat a stream of tobacco into the dirt and squinted at me. “Wait a minute. I know those eyes. You’re Arthur’s daughter, aren't you? The one he always bragged about having the clean credit score.”
“That’s me,” I said grimly. “Did my father run this place alone?”
Frank let out a harsh, barking laugh. “Alone? Hardly. He had silent partners. Dangerous ones. Guys who didn't care about family trusts or probate courts. When the bank froze these accounts six months ago, those guys lost a lot of un-taxable cash. And trust me, sweetheart, they aren't the type to just write it off as a bad investment.”
A chill ran down my spine, cutting right through the summer heat. “What kind of partners?”
Frank leaned against his truck door, lowering his voice. “Let’s just say your father thought he was playing high-stakes corporate poker, but he was sitting at a table with street sharks. If I were you, I wouldn't spend another night alone in that pretty little house in Apex. Because when those guys figure out Arthur’s assets are completely gone, they’re going to look for the next name on the surety bond.”
May you like
I looked down at the paper clutched in my hand—the forged guarantee bearing my name.
The war wasn't over. My family had simply handed me a much larger target.
