Chapter 5 - Bloodlines and Lies
Z
The glass exploded inward with a deafening crack, spraying sharp, glittering needles across my workbench and shoulders. I ducked instinctively, throwing my arms over my head as the heavy brick thundered onto the wooden surface, crushing a box of brass screws and knocking Theresa’s journal to the concrete floor.
I crouched behind the workbench, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The cold rain whipped through the broken window frame, blowing storm air into the dim garage. Outside, the night had descended completely, swallowing the backyard in deep shadows.
"Justin!" Olive’s voice shrieked from the kitchen back door across the muddy yard. "Justin, what was that sound?"
"Stay inside, Olive! Lock the door!" I screamed back, my voice raw with terror. "Don't come out here! Get the kids into the hallway!"
I scrambled on my knees across the cold concrete, my fingers searching frantically through the glass shards until they closed around the rough leather of Theresa’s journal. I shoved it back into the canvas tool bag, grabbed the heavy matte-black revolver from the bottom of the canvas pouch, and held it with both hands. It felt unnaturally cold, heavy, and lethal—an instrument of violence that had no place in a backyard garage surrounded by lawn mowers and children's bicycles.
I thumbed back the hammer, just as I had heard the stranger do at the bank. The sharp click echoed loudly in the dark garage.
I peeked over the edge of the workbench toward the broken window.
There was no one there. Only the dark, swirling rain beating against the sunflowers along the fence line.
I sprinted from the garage across the wet grass, sliding on the mud as I threw myself onto the back porch and slammed the kitchen door shut behind me, locking the heavy deadbolt.
Olive was standing in the middle of the kitchen, clutching a wooden rolling pin, her face completely drained of color. Fanny and Roger were huddled behind her skirt, Roger crying softly into his sister’s side while Fanny held him tightly, her young eyes wide with an adult level of terror.
"Justin, what is happening?" Olive sobbed, her gaze falling on the heavy black gun held tightly in my hands. Her voice dropped to a terrified whisper. "Oh my God. Justin... why do you have a gun?"
"Olive, listen to me," I gasped, setting the gun on the high counter out of the children's reach, though I kept my hand hovering near it. "We don't have time to process this right now. We are in danger. Real danger."
"Who was that outside?" she demanded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Why are people throwing bricks through our windows? Who is doing this to us?"
"The people who killed Theresa's family," I said, the truth finally tumbling out of me like a rushing river. "And the people who killed my father."
Olive froze. Her grip on the rolling pin loosened, almost dropping it to the floor. "Your father died in a car accident on a mountain road."
"That’s what my mother believed! That’s what they told everyone!" I stepped forward, grabbing her shoulders, forcing her to look into my eyes. "My father was murdered, Olive. Theresa’s real husband—her uncle—was an FBI agent who went underground with fifty million dollars in stolen state funds and a ledger that can bring down half the politicians in this state. Theresa was hiding here. She was hiding me."
Olive stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language, her mind desperately trying to bridge the gap between our quiet, predictable suburban life and the nightmare unfolding around us. "Theresa? Sweet old Miss Theresa with the pie?"
"She was protecting us," I said, my voice trembling. "And now they know she left the ledger to me. They gave me twenty-four hours to give it up, but they just threw a brick through the window to prove they aren't waiting."
"Then give it to them!" Olive screamed, grabbing the front of my wet jacket, shaking me violently. "Give them whatever they want, Justin! Give them the paper, give them the money! I don't care about a fifty-year-old scandal! I care about our children! Look at them! They're terrified!"
I looked down at Fanny and Roger. Fanny was staring at me, not with fear of the gun, but with a quiet, devastating realization.
"Daddy," Fanny whispered, her voice small and trembling against the sound of rain beating on the kitchen window. "Is Miss Theresa not in heaven?"
The question tore through my chest like a physical blade. "She is, sweetie," I choked out, kneeling down in front of them, wrapping my arms around both of my children, pulling their warm bodies tight against my racing heart. "She’s in heaven. And she’s still looking out for us. I promise you, I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
"We need to call the police," Olive said, pulling out her phone with trembling fingers, her thumb hovering over the dial pad.
"No!" I stood up abruptly, snatching the phone from her hand. "Olive, no! Thorne—Theresa’s attorney—is part of it. The police chief in this county was appointed by Senator Vance twenty years ago! Theresa wrote it in her journal! If we call the local cops, we are handing them our location on a silver platter!"
"Then what are we supposed to do?" she cried, throwing her hands up in utter desperation. "We can't stay here! We are sitting ducks in this house!"
"We need the ledger," I said, turning toward the back window that looked out into the storm. "Theresa buried it in the yard next door. Under the sunflowers. Once I have the ledger, I can contact the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the city. The state guys can't touch federal prosecutors. That’s our only leverage. That’s our only way out of this alive."
I walked over to the entryway, picked up the brick that had been thrown through the garage window, and unwrapped the black electrical tape. Inside the tape was a small, plastic thumb drive and a handwritten note written on yellow legal paper.
“You have three hours, Justin. Bring the ledger to the old grain silo on Route 9, or we show up at your children's elementary school tomorrow morning. No cops. No federal suits. Just you and the book.”
I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 8:15 PM.
The storm outside raged on, bending the tall sunflowers by the back fence until their bright yellow heads touched the mud.
"Olive," I said, turning to my wife with a cold, absolute determination I didn't know I possessed. "Take the kids into the master bedroom closet. Lock the door. Put the dresser in front of it. Take this gun."
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She backed away, shaking her head. "Justin, no, I don't know how to—"
"You pull the hammer back and you pull the trigger if anyone other than me tries to open that door," I placed the cold steel of the revolver into her hand, wrapping her shaking fingers around the grip. "I'm going next door. I'm going to dig up the truth."
