Chapter 13 - Shadows in Apex
I drove back to Apex in total silence, the radio off, my mind racing through worst-case scenarios.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the manicured lawn I had worked so hard to cultivate. I unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and immediately felt that primal, electric prickle at the back of my neck that signals you are no longer alone.
The air smelled faint—cheap cigarette smoke and stale cologne.
I didn't turn on the hallway light. I backed slowly out the front door, my hand sliding into my purse to grip the heavy metal canister of pepper spray I had carried since my divorce.
“Don't bother running, Camille,” a raspy voice murmured from the shadows of the front porch alcove.
A tall man stepped out from behind the porch pillar. He was wearing a dark leather jacket, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face obscured by the dim amber glow of the streetlamp.
“Who are you?” I demanded, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline hammering against my ribs.
“A friend of your father’s,” the man said, taking a slow step toward me. “Or rather, a creditor of your father’s. Arthur owed us eighty grand on the Durham warehouse inventory lease. When the feds locked his accounts, our cash vanished with them. But our legal department found something much more interesting when they pulled the secondary filings.”
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket—a copy of the exact same fraudulent surety bond Evelyn Vance had shown me that morning.
“Your signature,” he smiled, showing a flash of gold in the dim light. “Joint and several liability. That means if Arthur can’t pay, you pay. And since Arthur is currently living off a government-subsidized cot, guess who that leaves?”
“That signature was forged,” I said, my grip tightening on the pepper spray. “I never signed a commercial bond in my life.”
“Try proving that to a civil court while we slap a multi-thousand-dollar lien on this nice little four-bedroom house of yours,” he sneered, stepping closer. “Or... we can skip the courts. You write us a cashier's check for twenty grand by Friday as an installment, and we’ll lose the paperwork. Sound fair?”
I didn't blink. I didn't step back. Seven years of building a life from the ashes of a bad marriage and a toxic family had taught me one undeniable truth: panic is just a tax you pay before you fight back.
“Get off my property,” I said softly.
May you like
He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Or what? You’ll call the cops? They’re already familiar with this address, aren't they?”
I pulled the canister from my purse, flicked the safety off, and sprayed a direct, high-pressure stream of red-hot gel straight into his eyes before he could finish his sentence.
