Chapter 3 - The Hidden SafehouseThe truck bounced along the rutted dirt track for three miles before pulling up to a secluded stone cabin tucked beneath towering hemlock trees. There were no lights on, no power lines connecting to the roof. It was entirely hidden from the main road.
Vance cut the engine, carried me inside, and set me down on a leather sofa near a cold fieldstone fireplace. Within minutes, he had a small fire roaring, casting long, golden shadows across the rustic room.
He fetched a medical kit from the kitchen counter and knelt beside my legs. With clean, practiced movements, he cleaned the gashes on my forehead and wrapped my severely sprained ankle with an elastic bandage.
“You’re lucky,” he said, looking up at me. “No broken bones in the leg, just deep contusions and a sprain. You’ll be able to walk with a limp by tomorrow.”
“How long have you been following us, Major?” I asked softly, watching him pack away the medical supplies.
“Since the day Richard died,” he admitted, looking into the fire. “When Richard passed, his family made sure no autopsy was performed. They rushed the cremation through Mark Reynolds’ funeral home. I knew then that they were playing a long game. They waited three years so no one would connect your eventual ‘accident’ to Richard’s death.”
“Why today?” I asked. “Why did Evan pick today?”
“Because tomorrow is your thirty-fifth birthday,” Vance stated coldly. “Under the terms of Richard’s will, on your thirty-fifth birthday, full legal control of the estate, the cabin, and the offshore investment accounts automatically transfers from the temporary court receivership directly to you—unless you are dead or declared legally incompetent.”
I sank back into the sofa cushion, the full weight of the conspiracy crashing down on me. For three years, I had mourned Richard, living in that lonely mountain home, raising his bitter, distant son, thinking I was preserving his legacy. In reality, I was living in a cage, surrounded by vultures waiting for a clock to run out.
“They think I’m dead right now,” I realized aloud. “Evan saw me crushed in that wreckage. He thinks the truck driver was just a random passerby who couldn't reach me.”
“Exactly,” Vance nodded. “Which gives us twenty-four hours before they realize your body was never recovered from the ravine. The state police won't haul that Subaru out of the creek until tomorrow afternoon when the storm passes.”
Suddenly, Vance’s radio on the kitchen counter crackled to life with a static-filled frequency. He walked over, picking up the receiver.
A voice came through the speaker—low, frantic, and raspy.
“Vance, do you copy? It’s Miller at the garage. They just towed the kid’s sports car into town. He didn't go home.”
Vance pressed the talk button. “Where did he go, Miller?”
“He’s at the county courthouse downtown. His uncle Mark just unlocked the back doors for him. They’re filing emergency probate papers right now using a forged death certificate.”
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Vance looked at his watch. It was barely 9:00 PM.
“They aren't waiting for tomorrow,” Vance said, turning to me with a grim expression. “They’re trying to seize the estate tonight.”
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