Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Passenger SeatCamille Blackwood pushed her way past her father, her designer heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. She stared at me with pure venom, her face twisted in disgust.
“Dad, why are you listening to this trash? Have him thrown off the estate immediately! He’s trespassing and harassing our guests!”
Victor didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on the tiny brass key in my hand. His breathing was shallow, erratic, and fast.
“Where did you find that key?” Victor whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the garage ventilation.
“In my father’s garage locker, hidden inside a grease-stained leather notebook he left behind before he took his final shift at your estate,” I said, opening the car door and stepping out onto the concrete. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Victor, towering over him by two inches. “He knew you were planning something illegal, Victor. He knew you were using Blackwood Transport as a front for smuggling unregistered overseas antiquities. He told you he wouldn't sign the customs clearance forms.”
Camille scoffed, crossing her arms. “More wild conspiracy theories from the son of a criminal.”
“Shut up, Camille,” Victor snapped, his voice cracking with sudden, explosive rage.
Camille recoiled as if she had been slapped. In all her twenty-five years of pampered luxury, her father had never raised his voice to her.
I pulled a faded leather booklet from my jacket pocket—the very notebook my mother had guarded with her life for fifteen years. I flipped it open to a marked page containing handwritten diagrams, maintenance logs, and a duplicate physical key stamped with the exact VIN number of the Mustang.
“My father designed the custom dual-clutch transmission in this car,” I said, looking straight into Victor’s terrified eyes. “He knew every bolt, every wire, and every bypass switch. The night he died, his notebook shows he discovered contraband hidden inside the quarter panels of this Mustang. He confronted you in the private study.”
May you like
Victor took an involuntary step back, his back hitting the cold glass of the display case.
“And then,” I continued, my voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “you offered him a drive to ‘clear the air.’ But my father never drove this car off that cliff. Someone else did. Someone who didn't know about the secondary ignition kill-switch my father installed under the dash—which is why the car stalled mid-turn, crashing into the ravine while the real driver jumped out just in time.”
