Midnight Call
My knees were still bruised as I hauled the leather envelope through the swampy grass, the scent of my father’s pipe clinging to it like a ghost.
A low rumble cut through the cicada chorus; a midnight‑black Maybach emerged from behind the towering cypress, its glossy paint swallowing the moonlight.
Victor stepped out—tall, stone‑faced, his suit unruffled by the mud. He didn’t ask who I was; he simply tipped his hat.
“You’re Grace,” he said, voice as smooth as the car’s leather seats.
I nodded, throat tight. “You knew my dad,” I whispered.
He glanced at the envelope cradled against my chest. “Elijah and I… we ran a partnership no one else knew about. He left you a key—to something he couldn’t trust anyone else with.”
His hand hovered over the door, then he opened it, the interior a dark, opulent sanctuary.
“Get in,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”
The Maybach’s engine sighed, and I slipped into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin, the envelope pressed tighter to my heart.
Outside, the cypress whispered, and I could feel my father’s voice echoing, “Not until the world shows you its true face.”
Hidden Files
Victor drove as if the road were a river, the Maybach gliding through the night toward an industrial district where the air smelled of oil and rust.
We stopped at a rusted warehouse, its doors yawning like a mouth waiting to be fed.
Inside, dust swirled around a set of old filing cabinets, their metal faces scarred by time.
Victor pressed a hidden latch; the cabinet’s lock clicked open, revealing rows of sealed folders.
My hands trembled as I pulled out the top file—Elijah’s name stamped on the cover.
Inside were crisp documents: balance sheets, offshore account numbers, and a ledger titled “Derek’s Corporate Fraud.”
Another folder bore Lorraine’s name, a list of shell companies traced to tropical islands.
Victor’s jaw tightened. “He’s been siphoning money for years,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the warehouse’s cracked windows.
Suddenly, the Maybach’s headlights flared, the engine snarled, and the vehicle lurched forward.
Victor slammed the brakes, but the tires skidded, throwing the Maybach into a ditch with a crunch of metal.
The doors slammed shut, locking automatically; shattered glass rained down, spiderwebbing the interior.
Through the broken windshield, the silhouette of a black SUV grew—Derek’s vehicle, engine humming, looming like a predator.
The Letter Within the Leather
Victor pulled the envelope from the passenger seat and set it on the dash, the leather creaking like an old sigh.
See more on the next page