Chapter 10 - The Blue Ford
We reached the storage facility nineteen minutes later.
Police arrived three minutes after us.
The front gate stood open.
One security guard was sitting on the pavement holding a towel against his forehead.
He was conscious.
“Someone hit him?” Ethan asked.
An officer nodded.
“Likely with a blunt object.”
“Who?”
“We're determining that.”
I walked toward the main building.
An officer stopped me.
“Mrs. Hale, stay outside.”
“My property is in there.”
“It may be a crime scene.”
“It contains evidence connected to ongoing litigation.”
“That makes staying outside even more important.”
I hated him for being right.
Ethan stood beside me.
Five minutes later, officers brought Eleanor out.
She looked furious.
Not frightened.
Furious.
Her coat was torn at one sleeve.
“What happened?” I asked.
Eleanor saw me.
“This is your doing.”
“You broke into a storage facility.”
“I have legal access.”
“After business hours?”
“The manager admitted me.”
“Then why is a guard bleeding?”
Her face changed.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Where's Peter?”
Eleanor went silent.
An officer guided her toward a patrol car.
She turned.
“Catherine, you have no idea what you're unleashing.”
I almost laughed.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep proving me right.”
They put her in the car.
Another officer approached.
“We found signs someone exited through the rear.”
“Peter?”
“We don't know.”
“The truck?”
“Still inside.”
I felt relief.
Then the officer continued.
“But it has been opened.”
My stomach tightened.
“Passenger seat?”
“We saw tools nearby.”
We entered after the scene was photographed.
Thomas Hale's blue Ford sat under fluorescent lights.
The passenger door was open.
The seat had been partially unbolted.
Someone had known.
Not guessed.
Known.
Ethan crouched beside the truck.
“Did they get the document?”
An officer removed the seat.
Underneath was a shallow steel compartment.
Empty.
I stared.
“No.”
Ethan stood.
“Someone got there first.”
I looked at the concrete.
There were papers scattered near the rear tire.
One old envelope.
A service receipt.
A photograph.
No agreement.
Then I saw something inside the compartment.
A torn strip of cream paper caught beneath the metal edge.
I picked it up with gloved hands after police approval.
Only six words remained.
...DESCENDANTS OF DANIEL THOMAS HALE...
The agreement had been there.
Someone had removed it.
“Peter,” Ethan whispered.
Maybe.
But why?
I looked toward the rear exit.
One mystery immediately produced another.
Why had Peter returned after eleven years?
Why had he been paid by Eleanor?
Why did he know the hiding place?
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
Then a man's voice.
“Do not trust Samuel Ortiz.”
The call ended.
Ethan heard.
“Who was that?”
“I don't know.”
“Samuel?”
“No.”
We returned home near midnight.
Martin was waiting.
Samuel was gone.
My stomach dropped.
“Where is he?”
Martin looked uneasy.
“He left about forty minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“Said he needed medication.”
“Did he take anything?”
“We don't know yet.”
I went straight to my office.
The safe was open.
I had left it closed.
The binders remained.
But one folder was missing.
The paternity reports.
Ethan swore.
“Samuel took them.”
Maybe.
I checked the security footage.
Interior cameras showed Samuel entering my office at 10:48.
He remained inside four minutes.
Then walked out carrying nothing visible.
At 10:56, he left.
Martin looked at me.
“That looks bad.”
“Yes.”
My phone buzzed.
A message.
From Samuel.
I DIDN'T STEAL THE TESTS.
I TOOK THEM BECAUSE ELEANOR WAS COMING FOR THEM.
I stared.
A second message.
PETER HAS THE AGREEMENT.
A third.
AND HE KNOWS WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO DANIEL.
I typed.
WHERE ARE YOU?
No answer.
Then one final message appeared.
ASK MELISSA WHY DANIEL CALLED PETER AFTER HE CALLED HER.
My chest tightened.
Melissa had told us she was Daniel's last call.
Apparently, she was wrong.
Or lying.
I called her.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Ethan looked at me.
“What now?”
I thought of Peter.
The two hundred fifty thousand dollars.
Daniel's death.
The missing agreement.
Eleanor.
Samuel.
Melissa.
Everyone knew pieces.
No one told the same story.
Then Martin's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
He listened.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“We're coming.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Police found Peter Ward.”
“Where?”
“Three blocks from the storage facility.”
“Is he under arrest?”
Martin looked at me.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he's unconscious.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened to him?”
“They don't know.”
“Does he have the agreement?”
Martin shook his head.
“No.”
“Then who does?”
No one answered.
Across town, Victor was dying.
His mother had been detained.
His mistress was missing.
His former accountant had taken the paternity records.
Melissa's ex-husband was unconscious.
And the one document capable of transferring control of an eighty-four-million-dollar trust to twelve-year-old Noah had vanished.
For the first time in thirteen years, I wondered whether my silence had allowed this to become larger than even I could control.
Then my phone rang again.
Hospital.
Victor had asked for me.
Immediately.
When I reached his room, his eyes were barely open.
I sat beside him.
“Victor?”
He whispered something.
I leaned closer.
“What?”
“Peter.”
“Yes.”
“He knows.”
“Knows what?”
Victor struggled for breath.
I took his hand without thinking.
“What does Peter know?”
Victor opened his eyes.
“Daniel didn't hit the piling.”
My blood went cold.
“What happened?”
Victor's voice was barely audible.
“Someone moved it.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“The navigation marker.”
My skin prickled.
“Who?”
Victor looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
May you like
“My mother.”
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