Chapter 6 - Shadows on the Lake
"Who is this?" I demanded, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.
"A friend of Victor's," the voice replied smoothly. "And someone who knows that your wife’s car accident two years ago wasn't just bad luck on the icy Michigan highway."
My entire world stopped. The ambient noise of the server room vanished, replaced by a deafening roar in my ears.
"What did you say?" I whispered, my voice breaking.
"Sarah didn't die because of black ice, Julian. Her brake lines were expertly sheared off four hours before she left the lodge. And Victor has the confession recorded on a server you haven't found yet. If you want the truth—and the proof to put him away for murder—you'll walk out the back service exit of your building alone in twenty minutes. No police. No federal agents."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
For a long moment, I stood paralyzed. Sarah. My sweet, brilliant Sarah. For two years, I had blamed myself, believing I should have forced her to stay home that weekend. The guilt had been an anchor dragging me to the bottom of the ocean every single night.
And now, a faceless voice was telling me it was murder. And that Victor was behind it.
I didn't call the marshals back. I didn't tell anyone. Driven by a blinding, reckless fury, I bypassed the front lobby and slipped out through the subterranean service exit into the damp, gray alleyways of downtown Chicago.
A black town car was idling by the loading dock, its rear door already open.
A shadowy figure in a trench coat sat inside, holding a glowing laptop screen.
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"Get in, Julian," a voice called out from the gloom. "We don't have much time. Victor knows the feds are onto him, and he’s heading for his private airfield in Gary, Indiana."
Without thinking, I climbed into the backseat. The door slammed shut with a heavy, echoing thud, and the car lurched forward into the Chicago traffic before I even had time to buckle my seatbelt.
