Chapter 32 - The Man Who Died Twice
"Upstairs, take the emergency bag from the closet," David ordered, his voice stripped of emotion, reduced to pure tactical command. "Don't turn on any lights. Grab Maya’s passport, the cash from the safe, and head straight to the garage."
Leah nodded once, scooped Maya back into her arms, and melted into the shadows of the hallway without making a sound. The past two years had turned them into survivalists; their bags were never truly unpacked, their documents never stored in ordinary drawers.
David knelt beside the desk in the study. His laptop screen still displayed the encrypted email from Detective Miller. With trembling fingers, he plugged Julian’s flash drive into the port and bypassed the firewall using the password he had memorized from his brother’s notes.
The files opened.
There were dozens of scanned autopsy records, coroner reports, and court filings. David clicked on Arthur Vance’s Illinois death certificate from 2004. Cause of death: *Sudden myocardial infarction.* But as David zoomed into the lower quadrant of the document, the signature line caught his eye.
The attending physician who pronounced Arthur dead wasn't a county medical examiner. It was Dr. Samuel H. Ross—the very same private psychiatrist who had later spent fifteen years signing Evelyn’s false competency evaluations and managing her offshore financial trusts.
It was an orchestrated disappearance. Evelyn hadn't killed Arthur Vance; she had erased him from the legal world with the stroke of a bribed pen.
*Why?*
A sudden ding chimed through David’s encrypted messaging app. A message flashed from an unknown IP address:
*Coordinates: 45.3892° N, 123.8411° W. Old timber mill off Route 6. Do not bring the vehicle with the GPS transponder. The Crown Victoria parked outside your home is registered to the Department of Children and Family Services, but the men inside are Evelyn’s private retainers. If they touch the girl, she will vanish into a sealed trust. Run.*
A loud thump echoed from the front porch.
David closed the laptop, snapped it under his arm, and drew the Glock 19 from the hidden lockbox under the desk. He chambered a round with a clean, metallic *clack*.
Footsteps sounded on the cedar deck outside. Heavy, methodical steps. Then came a firm, authoritative knock at the front door.
"David Vance? This is Agent Miller with the State Child Protective Division. We have a court-ordered emergency custody notification regarding Maya Vance. Open the door, please."
*Agent Miller?*
Detective Miller from Chicago was a municipal homicide investigator, not an agent with CPS. They were using a real name to trigger David's instinct to comply.
David backed toward the kitchen, his boots soundless on the runner rugs. He slipped through the utility door leading into the attached garage.
Leah was already sitting in the passenger seat of their older, nondescript Subaru Outback—the car they kept unregistered to their local address. Maya was strapped into the rear car seat, chewing on her pacifier.
David threw his bag into the back, slid into the driver's seat, and pressed the ignition button. The engine rumbled to life.
"They're at the front door," David muttered.
"Are they police?" Leah asked, her hand trembling on the dashboard.
"No," David said coldly. "They're her."
May you like
He slammed the transmission into reverse, hit the button for the garage door, and floored the accelerator before the metal tracks had even lifted halfway.
***
