Chapter 3 - The House in Peoria
June did not scream.
That frightened me more than screaming would have.
She read the message once.
Then again.
Her face emptied.
“Call my mother.”
Marcus was already moving.
I handed June my phone.
Her fingers shook so hard she entered the wrong number twice.
On the third attempt, the call connected.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Four.
No answer.
June’s breathing changed.
“Mom.”
Five rings.
Six.
Voicemail.
She immediately called again.
I turned to Marcus.
“Get Peoria police to the address.”
He was typing before I finished.
June paced beside the desk.
“Mom always answers.”
“Call again.”
“She always answers at night because of her breathing.”
“Call.”
The third attempt rang twice.
Then someone answered.
June stopped moving.
“Mom?”
A child’s sleepy voice came through the phone.
“Mommy?”
June collapsed into the chair.
“Lila.”
Her hand covered her mouth.
“Oh, baby.”
I looked away.
“Where’s Grandma?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Is Micah with you?”
“Yes.”
“Are the doors locked?”
“I think.”
June closed her eyes.
“Listen to me carefully.”
Marcus held up a hand.
Police were on the way.
“Go wake Grandma.”
Lila yawned.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Footsteps.
A door.
Then Lila’s voice became more distant.
“Grandma?”
Silence.
“Grandma?”
June stood.
“Lila?”
Nothing.
“Lila?”
Then a sound came through the phone.
Not a voice.
A knock.
Three slow knocks.
June’s face drained of color.
“Lila, don’t open anything.”
Another knock.
“Mommy, somebody’s at the back door.”
Marcus was beside June now.
“Tell her to go upstairs.”
“Lila, take Micah upstairs right now.”
“But Grandma—”
“Right now.”
The fear in June’s voice finally broke through the child’s sleepiness.
We heard running.
A younger voice crying.
Micah.
Then another sound.
Glass breaking.
June looked at me.
I had heard that sound before.
People imagined break-ins were loud.
Often they weren’t.
A small window.
A controlled strike.
A hand through the gap.
A lock turned from inside.
“Police are four minutes out,” Marcus said.
Four minutes was an eternity.
“Lila,” June whispered.
“Hide with Micah.”
“Where?”
“Your closet.”
I stepped closer.
“Does the house have an attic?”
June shook her head.
“Basement?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Marcus answered before I could.
“Closet gives fewer exits.”
The phone transmitted every sound.
A door downstairs.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Whoever entered wasn’t stealing televisions.
They knew exactly why they were there.
June began crying silently.
I took another phone and called someone I hadn’t spoken to in eighteen months.
“Dominic.”
A rough voice answered.
“You know what time it is?”
“I need people in Peoria.”
He went quiet.
“Address?”
I gave it.
“How fast?”
“Now.”
“Who am I protecting?”
“A woman and two children.”
“What kind of threat?”
“Professional.”
Dominic didn’t ask another question.
“Ten minutes.”
Too long.
Everything was too long.
Through June’s phone, we heard a floorboard creak.
Then a man spoke.
“Mrs. Carter?”
June gripped the desk.
The voice was calm.
Polite.
That made it worse.
“We only need to talk.”
Micah whimpered.
June pressed the phone closer to her ear.
The intruder walked through the house.
“June made a mistake tonight.”
My blood turned to ice.
He knew.
He knew June was with me.
He knew exactly what had happened in my kitchen.
This was not a payroll thief panicking.
This was an operation.
“Come out.”
The man’s voice came closer.
“No one needs to get hurt.”
Marcus whispered, “Two minutes.”
A second male voice came through the phone.
“They’re upstairs.”
June’s knees nearly buckled.
There were two of them.
“Lila,” she whispered.
No response.
“Baby?”
Nothing.
Then the first man spoke again.
“Little girl?”
Footsteps climbed the stairs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Slowly.
June started toward the door as if Peoria were somehow on the other side.
I caught her shoulders.
“We’re going.”
“What?”
“We’re going now.”
Marcus shook his head.
“We don’t know if the threat here is contained.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I said we’re going.”
He knew better than to argue twice.
We moved toward the garage.
June kept the phone connected.
Halfway down the hall, shouting exploded through the speaker.
“Police!”
June stopped.
More shouting.
A crash.
Then a gunshot.
Her scream filled my house.
“Lila!”
Another gunshot.
Then silence.
For three seconds, none of us breathed.
A police officer’s voice came through the phone.
“Hello?”
June grabbed the device with both hands.
“My children.”
“Ma’am, are you the homeowner?”
“My children!”
“The children are safe.”
June folded forward as if someone had removed her bones.
“They’re safe?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“My mother?”
A pause.
Too long.
June’s eyes widened.
“What happened to my mother?”
“She appears to be experiencing a medical emergency.”
June covered her mouth.
“We have paramedics coming in.”
“What about the men?”
“One suspect is in custody.”
“And the other?”
The officer hesitated.
“One fled through the rear of the property.”
Marcus swore under his breath.
“We’re coming,” June said.
“Ma’am, stay on the line—”
She ended the call.
“I need to go.”
“We’re going.”
She looked at me.
“No.”
“What?”
“This is because of me.”
“No.”
“This is because I told you about the salary.”
“This is because someone stole from you.”
“If I hadn’t said anything—”
“You would still be starving.”
“At least my children would be safe.”
“They weren’t safe before tonight.”
She stared at me.
“The break-in two months ago proves that.”
Her face crumpled.
The truth hurt.
But lies would hurt more.
“They were already watching you.”
Marcus stopped near the garage.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Security found the photographer.”
June looked up.
“What photographer?”
“The person outside the house.”
“Alive?”
Marcus nodded.
“Caught him near the east wall.”
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Peter Sloan.”
I recognized it.
Private investigator.
Former Chicago police.
Worked corporate surveillance.
“Who hired him?”
“He won’t say.”
“Bring him inside.”
Marcus looked at June.
“We should leave first.”
“No.”
She wiped her face.
“I want to know.”
I studied her.
Five minutes earlier she had been a terrified mother listening to strangers enter her children’s house.
Now something else was emerging beneath the fear.
Anger.
Good.
Fear made people run.
Anger made them stay long enough to understand what they were running from.
Peter Sloan sat in a basement security room with two guards.
He was fifty-six.
Heavyset.
Rain jacket.
Camera bag.
No visible weapon.
When I entered, his expression changed.
“Adrian.”
Not Mr. Blackwell.
Adrian.
Meaning we had met before.
I remembered where.
Victor’s Christmas party.
Three years earlier.
Sloan had been drinking with Martin Voss.
June stood behind me.
Sloan saw her.
His expression hardened.
“You shouldn’t have brought her down here.”
I closed the door.
“Who hired you?”
He said nothing.
“Someone threatened her children.”
Sloan’s face changed.
That reaction mattered.
“You didn’t know.”
He looked away.
“Who hired you?”
“I was told to watch the house.”
“By whom?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can.”
“I have a family too.”
“So does she.”
He looked at June.
For the first time, shame entered his expression.
“I didn’t know they were going after the kids.”
“Who is they?”
Silence.
I stepped closer.
“I’m going to ask once more.”
Sloan looked at me.
“You think Victor Hale is behind this.”
I said nothing.
“You’re wrong.”
That was the first thing he had said that surprised me.
“Then tell me who.”
Sloan swallowed.
“You need to stop digging.”
“No.”
“You have no idea what you’re looking at.”
“Twenty-two million dollars stolen from employees.”
He actually laughed.
A frightened laugh.
“That’s what you think this is?”
Marcus and I exchanged a glance.
“What is it?”
Sloan leaned back.
“The payroll money is nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It was camouflage.”
“For what?”
He looked at June again.
Then at me.
“For money that was never supposed to exist.”
I felt the room tighten.
“What money?”
Sloan shook his head.
“I won’t say more.”
“You will.”
He closed his eyes.
“Adrian, I watched your wife for six months before she died.”
I stopped.
June looked at me.
Marcus moved closer.
“What did you say?”
Sloan opened his eyes.
“I was paid to follow Evelyn.”
The entire room disappeared around me.
“By Victor?”
“No.”
“Martin?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Sloan’s face looked almost apologetic.
“Evelyn hired me herself.”
I stared at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“She thought someone inside Blackwell was stealing.”
“The payroll?”
“No.”
“What?”
“She never told me the whole thing.”
“You expect me to believe my wife hired a private investigator and never told me?”
“She didn’t trust you.”
My hand closed around the edge of the table.
Marcus stepped nearer.
Not to Sloan.
To me.
He knew what that sentence had done.
Sloan kept talking.
“She thought someone was using your companies to move money through domestic staffing, construction subcontractors, and logistics vendors.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was she investigating?”
“Victor.”
I felt vindication for half a second.
Then Sloan finished.
“And you.”
Silence.
June looked between us.
I almost laughed.
“My wife thought I was stealing from myself?”
“She didn’t know what you knew.”
“What does that mean?”
“She believed someone was hiding transactions behind your authorization codes.”
“EVB-17?”
His face changed.
That was confirmation.
“You know the code.”
“Tell me what it means.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I know it was important to her.”
“Why?”
“Because three days before she died, Evelyn called me.”
I stopped breathing.
“What did she say?”
Sloan’s eyes shifted toward the guards.
“Send them out.”
“No.”
“Then I’m done.”
I looked at Marcus.
He nodded once.
The guards left.
Sloan leaned forward.
“She said she finally found where the money was going.”
“Where?”
“She wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That if anything happened to her, I should look for a woman named Carter.”
June made a sound behind me.
I turned.
Her face had gone pale.
Sloan looked directly at her.
“Not June.”
June whispered, “Who?”
Sloan answered.
May you like
“Margaret Carter.”
June’s mother.
