Chapter 8
My father arrived at the warehouse in twelve minutes flat.
He brought four security men with him—big, quiet men with guns under their jackets and eyes that missed nothing.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t say “I told you so.”
He just pulled me into his arms and held me for a long time.
When he finally let go, his face was like stone.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Still at large,” Julian said. “The FBI is coordinating with local law enforcement. We’ve got roadblocks on all major highways. We’re checking airports, bus stations, train stations. But Derek knows the area. He could be hiding in any of a hundred abandoned buildings or farmhouses within ten miles.”
My father turned to his head of security—a man named Cole I had known since I was a child.
“Cole,” he said. “Double the guard on the house. I want Clara with me at the penthouse until this is over. No one gets within fifty feet of her without my permission. No exceptions. Not the police. Not the FBI. Not even you, unless I say so.”
Cole nodded.
“Already on it, sir.”
My father turned back to Julian.
“You’re the lawyer my wife trusted,” he said. “That means I trust you. What’s the play here? How do we end this?”
“Derek has two priorities now,” Julian said. “First: survival. He needs money, a car, a way out of the state. Second: revenge. He blames Clara for everything that’s happened to him. In his mind, none of this is his fault. It’s all hers. All yours. He won’t leave Virginia until he’s done something to make you pay.”
He paused.
“We know he has at least three million dollars in cash hidden in offshore accounts he hasn’t touched yet. Money even we didn’t find. He can access it through a prepaid debit card. So he’s not desperate for cash—not yet. But he will need help. He’ll reach out to old friends. People who owe him favors. People who don’t care that he’s a wanted man.”
“Who?” my father asked.
“Mostly people from his past,” Julian said. “Criminals he knew before he met Clara. Small-time thieves. Drug dealers. People who would help him for enough money. I’ve already given the FBI their names. They’re watching them all.”
I had been quiet until now.
“Wait,” I said. “There’s someone we’re forgetting. Someone who would help him without even thinking about it.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Sloane,” I said.
Helen shook her head.
“Sloane dumped him,” she said. “She called him damaged goods. She’s not going to help him.”
“Maybe not willingly,” I said. “But think about it. Sloane knows Derek. She knows how he thinks. She knows what he’s capable of. And she’s the only other person who has reason to hate me almost as much as he does. I fired her. I embarrassed her. I sent her a bill for half a million dollars. If Derek offered her enough money—enough to pay that bill and start over somewhere else—she’d help him. She’d tell him anything he wanted to know.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
“She knows your schedule,” he said. “She knows the layout of your house. She knows which roads you take to work. She knows everything about you, Clara. If Derek gets to her—”
“Then he knows exactly how to get to me,” I finished.
My father was already reaching for his phone.
“Cole,” he said. “Find Sloane Avery. Now. Bring her to me. I don’t care if you have to kick down her hotel door. I want her in front of me within the hour. And if she gives you any trouble—”
“She won’t,” Cole said.
He was gone.
***
We moved to my father’s penthouse in downtown Richmond.
It occupied the top two floors of the tallest building in the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows on every side. Bulletproof glass. A private elevator. Enough security to withstand a small army.
An hour later, Sloane was brought in.
She looked even worse than she had at the office.
Her hair was a mess. She was wearing the same red dress from two nights ago—now wrinkled and stained. Her feet were bare—she’d lost her shoes somewhere.
Two security guards held her arms.
She struggled as they walked her in.
“Let go of me!” she screamed. “You can’t do this! This is kidnapping! I’ll have you all arrested—”
She saw me.
And my father.
And Julian.
And Helen.
And the three FBI agents who had joined us.
Her mouth snapped shut.
“Sloane,” my father said. He was sitting in a leather armchair, his voice low and dangerous. “We need to talk about Derek.”
Sloane’s eyes darted around the room.
“I don’t know anything about Derek,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to him since—since everything happened. I want a lawyer.”
“You’ll get a lawyer,” Julian said. “Right after you answer our questions. Because right now, Sloane, you’re looking at federal charges too. Conspiracy to commit fraud. Aiding and abetting embezzlement. Receiving stolen property. That half a million dollars you spent on clothes and jewelry? That was stolen money. You could go to prison for five years. Maybe more.”
Sloane’s face went pale.
“Prison?” she whispered.
“Prison,” Julian confirmed. “Unless you help us. Unless you tell us everything you know about Derek. Every friend. Every hiding place. Every habit. Every person he might call. And if you’re lying—if you hold back even one small thing—those charges get filed today. And you spend your thirtieth birthday in a cell with a woman named Bertha who thinks you have a pretty mouth.”
Sloane looked like she was going to be sick.
She looked at me.
I said nothing.
I just watched her.
Finally, she broke.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll talk. But you have to promise. No charges. The invoice goes away. I get to leave Virginia and never come back. You never hear from me again.”
Julian looked at the FBI agents.
They nodded slightly.
“Deal,” Julian said. “But only if everything you tell us checks out. If we find out you lied—”
“I’m not lying,” Sloane said. She sat down heavily on the nearest chair. “God, I’m not lying. I hate Derek now. More than you do. He promised me the world. He told me I’d be a CEO’s wife. And instead, I’m broke, I’m unemployed, and everyone in this state knows I’m the mistress who got played.”
She took a deep breath.
“Derek has a brother,” she said. “A half-brother named Jimmie. Lives in a trailer out in Goochland County. They’re not close—Derek is embarrassed by him. But Jimmie is the only family Derek has left. And Jimmie owes him. Derek paid Jimmie’s medical bills two years ago when his kid got leukemia. Saved the kid’s life. Jimmie would do anything for him. Anything.”
One of the FBI agents was already typing furiously on his phone.
“Go on,” Julian said.
“Derek also has an old friend named Rico,” Sloane said. “Rico Martinez. They grew up together. Rico does… I don’t know. Bad things. Guns. Drugs. People go to Rico when they need something that isn’t legal. Derek called him once, about a year ago. Some guy was suing the company. Derek wanted Rico to… persuade him to drop the suit. I don’t know what happened. But the guy dropped the suit two days later.”
“Address for Rico?” the agent asked.
“Last I heard, he was living in Manchester,” Sloane said. “Above that biker bar on Hull Street. The Iron Horse.”
The agent nodded.
“We know the place.”
“Is there anything else?” Julian asked. “Anywhere Derek would go to hide? Anywhere special to him?”
Sloane thought for a long moment.
“There’s a cabin,” she said slowly. “Up in the Blue Ridge. Near Afton Mountain. Derek’s grandfather built it. He used to go there when he was a kid. He never told anyone about it—not even his lawyer. He only told me once, when he was drunk. Said it was the only place in the world he ever felt safe. Said if anything ever went wrong, that’s where he’d go. No electricity. No running water. No cell service. No one would ever think to look for him there.”
She looked up.
“That’s where he is,” she said. “I know it. He’s at that cabin.”
***
Thirty minutes later, we were in the air.
My father’s private helicopter.
Four FBI agents.
Julian.
Cole and two other security men.
And me.
My father had tried to make me stay behind.
“Too dangerous,” he’d said. “Let the professionals handle it.”
But I had refused.
“This is my fight,” I’d told him. “I started it. I’m going to finish it.”
He hadn’t argued.
He knew that look in my eye.
It was the same look my mother used to get.
The helicopter flew west, toward the mountains.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Below us, the city gave way to suburbs, then to farmland, then to the endless green expanse of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The agent in charge—Special Agent Carter—was on the radio with units on the ground.
“Local sheriff’s deputies have the roads around Afton Mountain blocked,” he said. “State police are moving in. We’ve got a SWAT team standing by. The cabin is at the end of a five-mile dirt road. No other structures within three miles. Perfect isolation.”
He looked at me.
“We’re going to set down half a mile away,” he said. “We’ll approach on foot. Surround the place. Give him a chance to surrender. If he doesn’t—”
He didn’t need to finish.
I knew what happened if Derek didn’t surrender.
Ten minutes later, the helicopter set down in a clearing.
The rotors slowed.
We piled out.
The air was cool and thin.
The smell of pine was everywhere.
The agents took the lead, their guns drawn, moving silently through the trees.
Julian was beside me.
My father was on my other side.
Cole and the other security men formed a protective circle around us.
We walked for what felt like an hour.
Up hill.
Down dale.
Through thick brush.
Until finally, we saw it.
Through the trees.
A small, weathered log cabin.
Smoke was coming from the chimney.
A single lantern glowed in the front window.
Derek was there.
Agent Carter held up a fist.
We all stopped.
He whispered into his radio.
Units moved into position around the cabin.
We waited.
The silence was absolute.
Then—
“DEREK CALLAHAN!” Agent Carter’s voice boomed through a megaphone. “THIS IS THE FBI! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! YOU ARE SURROUNDED!”
Nothing.
No movement.
No sound from the cabin.
“DEREK!” Carter shouted again. “WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! COME OUT PEACEABLY AND NO ONE GETS HURT! YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS!”
We counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Still nothing.
Carter nodded to one of his men.
The man stepped forward with a flash-bang grenade.
He pulled the pin.
Threw it through the cabin window.
*CRACK-BOOM!*
The world exploded in light and noise.
“GO! GO! GO!”
Agents swarmed the cabin.
They kicked the front door in.
More shouting.
More noise.
And then—
A single gunshot.
*BANG!*
The world went silent again.
I froze.
My father’s arm tightened around me.
Seconds later, Agent Carter walked out of the cabin.
He was holding his radio.
He looked at us.
May you like
And he shook his head.
“Subject is down,” he said. “Gunshot wound to the head. Self-inflicted. He’s dead.”
