Chapter 3 - THE TRAP AT RUSTON WAYThe line went dead.
Detective Miller instantly motioned to her radio. “Trace that burner number! Get a grid search on the Point Defiance cell tower!”
Dad didn’t panic. He slowly lowered the phone, his face carved out of granite. He turned to look at Noah, who stirred in his sleep, murmuring softly.
“He’s watching us,” I sobbed, struggling to sit up as the heart monitor beeped erratically. “Miller, he’s close. He knows we’re here.”
“We’re putting a police guard outside this room immediately,” Miller assured, stepping into the hallway to coordinate units. “No one gets near you or your son.”
“Dad…” I grabbed my father’s sleeve. “What are we going to do? He’s insane. He’s going to take Noah.”
Dad leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. “Lena, thirty years ago, when I was on the docks, a gang tried to extort our local union. They threatened families. You know what we did?”
“Dad, no. This isn’t the docks. This is a criminal master—”
“We didn’t run,” Dad interrupted calmly. “We let them think they had us cornered. Then we led them into a blind alley.”
He pulled a small USB flash drive from his pocket and laid it on my bed stand.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Every conversation Evan had in our house for the past six months,” Dad revealed. “I didn’t trust him, Lena. Not since the day I saw that hidden bruise on your wrist last Thanksgiving. I installed voice-activated bugs in your living room and his office desk. I was waiting for enough legal proof to take him down forever.”
My mouth fell open. “You knew?”
“I suspected,” Dad whispered, a heavy wave of sorrow breaking through his rigid posture. “And God forgive me for not pulling you out sooner. I wanted to build a case so tight he’d spend the rest of his life in a cage. But now he’s pushed us to the wall.”
Dad looked at the clock on the wall. 2:14 a.m.
“At noon, the bank will trigger the code,” Dad said. “Evan thinks he’s hunting us. But he’s about to realize he walked into a slaughterhouse.”
Dad walked out into the hallway to speak with Detective Miller, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the machines. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers trembling.
Then, a text message popped up on my lock screen.
Not from the unknown burner number.
From an unlisted contact labeled simply: [SYSTEM ADMIN].
May you like
“Your father thinks he’s playing chess, Lena. But ask him where your mother really went twenty years ago before you trust him with Noah.”
My blood turned to ice.
