Continue to the next chapter to discover what happens.

Word count: 1018

The digital clock on my truck dashboard glowed 2:30 AM as we pulled into the deserted parking lot of the Cumberland City Marina. The wind coming off the river was biting, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of diesel fuel and rotting river reeds. The marina was pitch black, save for a single flickering security light hanging over the entrance of the boat storage docks.

According to Julian’s contact, Marcus Vance—the private investigator my mother had hired to dig up dirt on Amy—was hiding out in a converted houseboat moored at slip 42, waiting for a final cash wire that would never arrive.

I killed the truck engine and cut the headlights, plunging us into total darkness.

“Stay here,” I whispered to Amy, turning in my seat.

“Connor, no,” Amy protested immediately, her hand catching my arm. “We agreed. We’re in this together. If this guy is dangerous, you’re not going down there alone.”

“She’s right, Connor,” Julian chimed in from the back seat, adjusting his coat collar. “Marcus is a trained operative. He’s armed, and he’s currently realizing he’s been scammed out of fifty grand by a woman sitting in a jail cell. He won't be in a conversational mood.”

I looked at Amy’s determined eyes in the dashboard light and knew there was no point arguing.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Stay behind me. Step for step. If anything looks wrong, we retreat to the truck immediately.”

We slipped out of the vehicle and moved silently across the creaking wooden planks of the marina docks. The water below us lapped against the pilings with a dark, rhythmic slosh. Row after row of expensive yachts and modest fishing boats bobbed gently in the dark, their metal rigging pinging softly in the night breeze.

We reached slip 42 at the very end of the outer dock. Moored there was an old, weathered Chris-Craft houseboat with darkened windows and a single yellow bug light burning above the sliding glass cabin door.

Julian stepped forward, raising his hand, and knocked three sharp, measured times on the wood frame.

Silence.

Then, a faint shuffling sound came from inside the cabin, followed by the metallic click of a deadbolt turning.

The door slid open about six inches, revealing a pair of bloodshot, paranoid eyes peering out from the darkness. The man holding the door was in his late fifties, with a weathered face, a stubbled beard, and a hand hidden inside the pocket of his heavy canvas jacket.

“We’re closed,” Marcus rasped, his voice rough from cheap whiskey and cigarettes. “Get lost.”

“Teresa Bradley isn’t paying your invoice, Marcus,” Julian said smoothly, stepping directly into the sliver of light before the door could slam shut.

The private investigator froze. His eyes darted from Julian to me, and then to Amy standing just behind my shoulder.

“Who the hell are you?” Marcus demanded, his hand tightening inside his jacket pocket.

“I’m Julian Vance. And this is Connor Bradley,” Julian replied, his voice calm and unyielding. “Teresa is currently sitting in the Davidson County Detention Center facing federal grand larceny, wire fraud, and a pending homicide investigation. The Teresa Bradley Legacy Trust has been frozen by federal order. That fifty thousand dollar retainer she promised you? It doesn't exist anymore.”

Marcus stared at Julian for a long, agonizing second. The color drained entirely from the investigator's face as the implications of the words settled into his brain. He had spent the last three weeks tracking an innocent young mother, taking orders from a psychopath, and now he was holding an empty bag with federal investigators circling his clients.

“The old bitch lied to me,” Marcus muttered, his hand slipping slowly out of his pocket, empty. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh and pulled the cabin door open all the way. “Get inside before the harbor patrol sees you.”

We stepped into the cramped, tobacco-stained cabin of the houseboat. Piles of surveillance photographs, legal notes, and laptop computers covered the small dinette table.

“What do you want?” Marcus asked, collapsing onto a worn vinyl stool and pulling a bottle of bourbon toward himself. “If you’re here to collect the files I gathered on your wife, Connor... I haven't filed them with the county yet. They’re right here.”

He pointed a finger toward a thick red accordion folder sitting on the counter.

“We don't want to destroy your files, Marcus,” Julian said, stepping up to the table and laying his leather briefcase down. “We want you to sign an affidavit.”

Marcus looked up suspiciously. “An affidavit for what?”

“An affidavit stating that Teresa Bradley explicitly coerced you into fabricating surveillance reports regarding Amy Bradley, and that she personally instructed you to forge Connor’s signature on the Vanguard Holdings corporate registry using templates stolen from his college transcripts,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp register.

Marcus stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Are you insane?” Marcus barked, shaking his head. “If I sign that, I’m admitting to federal forgery and obstruction of justice! I’ll lose my PI license and spend ten years in a federal penitentiary!”

“If you don't sign that affidavit by sunrise, Marcus,” I stepped forward, my voice cold and hard as steel, “I’ll hand your name, your bank records, and every single illegal wire transfer Teresa made to you over the last three years directly to Sergeant Miller. You won't just lose your license; you’ll be sharing a cell block with the woman who stiffed you.”

The cabin went dead silent. Marcus looked at me, seeing the absolute, unyielding fury of a husband whose family had nearly been destroyed by the very person sitting across from him. He looked at Julian, seeing a federal investigator who held all the cards. And then he looked at the bottle of bourbon in his hand.

Slowly, deliberately, Marcus set the bottle down, pulled a heavy black pen from his shirt pocket, and dragged the blank affidavit form across the table toward himself.