Chapter 4
Pier 14 was the kind of place where bad things happened after dark.
Abandoned warehouses.
Rusted shipping containers.
The kind of spot where a body could disappear with the tide.
I parked three blocks away.
Walked the rest.
Stayed in the shadows.
A man was leaning against a piling near the water.
Dark jacket.
Baseball cap pulled low.
Smoking a cigarette.
He didn’t turn when I approached.
“Nice of you to show, Finnley. I was starting to think Reagan got to you first.”
Marcus Thorne.
Even in the dim light, I could see the scar running down his left cheek.
The kind of scar you don’t get from a desk job.
“You have something for me,” I said.
Stopping ten feet away.
Keeping my distance.
He chuckled.
“Smart. Your father taught you well. Yeah. I got something. Or rather—someone.”
He flicked his cigarette into the water.
Nodded toward a beat-up van parked behind a stack of pallets.
The side door slid open.
A woman stumbled out.
Middle-aged.
Scared.
Her clothes were the uniform of a housekeeper.
I recognized her instantly.
Maria.
She’d worked for my family for fifteen years.
She’d taught me how to make tamales on Christmas Eve.
She’d held me when my mom died.
“Maria,” I breathed.
She ran to me.
Grabbed my hands.
Tears streaming down her face.
“Finnley. Oh, thank God. I thought I’d never see you again. I tried to send you letters in prison. But Reagan… she intercepted everything. Threatened to send my family back to Mexico if I said a word.”
I held her shoulders.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now. What do you know? About my father?”
She swallowed hard.
Glanced around like the walls had ears.
“He’s not dead, Mr. Finnley. I saw him. Two weeks after the funeral. I went back to the house to get my things. I heard noises from the basement. The old wine cellar they never used. I went down. And there he was. Tied to a chair. Pale. Thin. He looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in months. Reagan was there. And Carter. They were yelling at him. Saying ‘sign the papers, old man, or you really will be dead by morning.’”
My blood ran cold.
Two weeks after they buried an empty casket.
He was in the basement of my own house.
While I sat in a prison cell a hundred miles away.
“Did he sign?” I asked.
My voice barely a whisper.
“I don’t know. I ran before they heard me. But that night… they moved him. A van came. Blacked-out windows. I heard Carter say ‘the lake house. No one will find him there.’”
The lake house.
My family had a cabin three hours north.
On Silver Lake.
Secluded.
Woods for miles.
I’d spent every summer there as a kid.
Thorne spoke up.
“I checked. Reagan ‘sold’ it six months ago to a shell company. But the company traces back to her mother. She didn’t sell it. She hid it. And I’ve been doing surveillance. Lights on at odd hours. Deliveries of medical supplies. Food for two. Your father’s there, Finnley. I’m almost certain of it.”
“Almost?”
“Only one way to know for sure. We go up there. Tonight. Before they move him again.”
Maria grabbed my arm.
“Be careful, Mr. Finnley. Carter has men. I’ve seen them. Big men. With guns. Reagan pays them well to make sure nobody asks questions.”
Thorne pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
“Maria’s staying at a safe house I set up. She’s protected. You and me? We’ve got a three-hour drive. You in?”
I thought of my father.
Alone.
Scared.
Drugged.
In the place where we used to fish and build campfires.
I thought of Reagan and Carter.
Sleeping in my father’s bed.
Eating at his table.
Laughing about how they’d gotten away with it.
“I’m in,” I said.
Thorne tossed me a dark hoodie from the van.
“Put this on. And take this.”
He handed me something heavy.
A handgun.
I stared at it.
“I’ve never held one of those.”
“Hope you never have to use it. But Reagan and Carter? They won’t hesitate. So you can’t either. Now move. We’ve got a long drive and not much time.”
As we climbed into the van, my burner phone buzzed.
Another text from the unknown number.
I know where you’re going, Finnley.
The lake house is a trap.
Come alone.
Or your father dies tonight.
I showed Thorne.
His jaw set.
“Whoever’s sending these—they’re inside. Someone close to Reagan. Or someone who’s been watching you since you got out. Doesn’t matter. We adjust the plan. No front door. We come in through the old boathouse. The one with the tunnel your father built when you were kids. Remember?”
I did.
Dad had spent a whole summer digging it.
Said it was for “emergencies and pirate raids.”
I’d thought it was just a game.
Turned out he’d known.
Somehow.
He’d known he might need it.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Sliding the gun into the waistband of my jeans.
Cold metal against my skin.
Three hours.
That was all that stood between me and the truth.
Between me and my father.
And if Reagan and Carter were waiting?
Well.
May you like
They’d already taken three years of my life.
I wasn’t going to let them take one more night.
