Chapter 8 - THE LAST TRAPVictor wanted me at the workshop.
I knew it the moment I saw the message.
The same building my father had loved.
The same basement where I had spent childhood afternoons watching him draw blueprints.
Victor was trying to drag me back into the place where this nightmare had begun.
But I wasn't going alone.
I forwarded the message to Detective Ramirez.
Then I called Tessa.
"He's at the workshop."
"Don't move."
"I'm not going anywhere without the police."
There was a brief silence.
Then Tessa said:
"Good. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
Within minutes, Ramirez called.
Officers were checking the property.
She wanted me to remain at Tessa's house.
I agreed.
Then another message arrived.
This time, it was a video.
Victor stood inside my father's workshop.
Behind him were the old drafting tables.
The faded photographs.
The shelves.
He looked directly into the camera.
"Claire."
His voice was calm.
Almost conversational.
"I think we've had enough misunderstandings."
He raised something into view.
A framed photograph.
My parents on their wedding day.
The photograph that had hung above my father's drafting table for more than thirty years.
Victor dropped it.
The glass shattered.
I gasped.
He smiled.
"Your father was a stubborn man."
He stepped on the broken frame.
"Stubborn people often leave terrible messes behind."
The video ended.
I sat perfectly still.
Tessa watched my face.
"Claire?"
I couldn't answer.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to drive there and tear the photograph out of Victor's hands.
Instead, I placed my phone on the table.
And waited.
Twenty minutes later, Ramirez called again.
Officers had approached the workshop.
The front door was locked.
The rear entrance was open.
But Victor was gone.
The building was empty.
I stared at the phone.
"How?"
"He appears to have recorded the video earlier."
"Then where is he?"
"We're working on it."
She paused.
"Claire, has anyone contacted you about a second location?"
"No."
"Any unusual calls?"
I shook my head.
Then remembered something.
The black suitcase.
Victor leaving the harbor parking garage.
The redevelopment project.
Riverside Towers.
I stood.
"Riverside."
"What?"
"Victor's company owns the original service annex. My father met him there the night before he died."
Ramirez was silent.
Then she said:
"Stay where you are."
She ended the call.
Tessa looked at me.
"What is it?"
I grabbed my mother's notebook.
Flipped through the pages.
There.
A handwritten address.
Riverside Service Annex. Underground records room.
Underneath, my mother had written:
Victor kept the originals.
My heart began pounding.
"He never destroyed everything."
Tessa leaned closer.
"Claire?"
"He couldn't."
I pointed to the note.
"The original inspection records would have been useful to him. He needed to know exactly what was changed, especially if anyone ever questioned the structural design."
Tessa read the address.
"Then why would he go back now?"
"To destroy whatever's left."
The Riverside property stood behind temporary fencing on the edge of an industrial district.
The original towers had been demolished years earlier.
Only the service annex remained.
A squat concrete building surrounded by weeds and construction equipment.
Police arrived shortly before 9:00 p.m.
Victor's abandoned car wasn't there.
But another vehicle registered to a Whitmore subsidiary was parked behind the annex.
Ramirez called for additional officers.
They approached carefully.
Inside, the main office was empty.
A door near the back led down to an underground records room.
The lock had been broken.
The room smelled of dust and old paper.
Several metal cabinets stood open.
Boxes had been pulled from shelves.
A portable shredding machine sat near the wall.
And beneath it lay a pile of partially destroyed documents.
Victor had been there.
But he was gone.
Again.
At Tessa's house, I watched the clock.
9:18.
9:32.
9:47.
No news.
Finally, Ramirez called.
"We've recovered records."
"Was Victor there?"
"No."
"Did he destroy them?"
"Some. Not all."
I closed my eyes.
"Are they important?"
"Potentially. We'll have to examine them."
Then she said:
"Claire, we found something else."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"A photograph of your father."
I gripped the phone.
"Another photograph?"
"This one appears to have been taken after his car crashed."
My knees weakened.
I sat down.
Ramirez continued carefully.
"It was stored with an insurance file."
"Why would Victor have that?"
"We're investigating."
I stared at the wall.
My father's death had been Victor's secret for fifteen years.
Now pieces of it were appearing everywhere.
"Is there anything else?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"What?"
"The file contains a handwritten notation."
I held my breath.
Ramirez read it.
SHAW CONFIRMED. PAYMENT RELEASED.
At 10:11 p.m., the police located Martin Shaw.
He was living under his own name in a small town in western Massachusetts.
He had retired from automotive repair three years earlier.
When officers arrived, he initially refused to speak.
Then they showed him a copy of the payment record.
His expression changed.
Within an hour, he requested an attorney.
By midnight, he had agreed to provide a statement through counsel.
I didn't sleep.
Neither did Tessa.
We sat at her kitchen table drinking terrible coffee and waiting for news.
At 2:26 a.m., Ramirez called.
Martin Shaw had admitted that he tampered with my father's vehicle at Victor's direction.
He claimed Victor paid him twenty-five thousand dollars.
He also claimed Andrew had witnessed Victor giving the order.
I stared at the phone.
For fifteen years, my father's death had been called an accident.
Now the man who had helped cause it was finally speaking.
I began to cry.
Tessa held me.
Not because everything was over.
But because, for the first time, I could imagine that it might end.
At 5:14 a.m., Helen called.
Her voice was weak.
"Claire, are you awake?"
"Yes."
"Andrew came to see me."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"With the police. They allowed us to speak briefly."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"He told me something."
I waited.
"He said Victor called him last night."
My stomach tightened.
"What did he want?"
"Money. A car. A way out of the country."
"Did Andrew help him?"
"No."
Helen began crying.
"He gave the police the number."
Relief washed through me.
Then she continued.
"But Victor said something before he hung up."
"What?"
Helen's voice dropped.
"He said Claire's mother wasn't innocent."
My entire body went cold.
I closed my eyes.
"He's lying."
"Maybe."
She hesitated.
"Andrew says Victor mentioned a second recording."
I gripped the phone.
"What second recording?"
Helen took a shaky breath.
"One that your mother made."
The room went silent.
May you like
Then she whispered:
"Victor said Margaret knew exactly why your father was killed."
