CHAPTER 7: LIVE FROM THE RUINS
The explosion destroyed the rear production wing of the television station.
Windows shattered across three floors. Smoke poured from the roof. Emergency crews arrived within minutes, but the live feed had already shown enough to create chaos throughout the city.
Allison had accused judges, police officials, donors, and business leaders by name.
Some immediately denied everything.
Others could not be reached.
Before the fire department cleared the building, rumors spread that Allison had died.
I refused to believe it without proof.
Morales drove us toward the station while federal agents moved Mom and Jade to a new secure location.
“You are not entering the building,” Morales said.
“You said that at the warehouse.”
“And you ignored me there too.”
“Did Kane plant the bomb?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is he inside police headquarters?”
“We don’t know that either.”
“Allison sounded certain.”
Morales gripped the steering wheel.
“Allison has lied to you for years.”
“She also knew about the sewing box, Martin, the ledger, and the warehouse.”
Morales did not answer.
At the station, paramedics treated injured employees in the parking lot.
The host who interviewed Allison had suffered burns but survived. He told police that moments before the explosion, Allison had pushed the notebook into his hands and ordered him to run.
“Where is it now?” Morales asked.
The host pointed toward an ambulance.
“An officer took it.”
“What officer?”
“I don’t know. Older guy. Gray hair.”
Harold Kane.
Morales radioed the description.
No officer matching it had been assigned to the scene.
Kane had walked into the confusion wearing an old uniform and taken the evidence.
“What happened to Allison?” I asked.
The host shook his head.
“She ran toward the archive hallway.”
That section had suffered the worst damage.
Firefighters searched for two hours.
They found no body.
Behind the collapsed wall was an emergency exit leading into an alley.
A traffic camera showed a woman limping away three minutes after the explosion.
Allison was alive.
For the second time, she had disappeared.
But this time she had given us something useful.
During the broadcast, she deliberately held several notebook pages toward the camera. The resolution was poor, yet federal analysts recovered fragments.
Account numbers.
Wire transfers.
A storage facility outside the city.
One payment referenced “B.C. containment.”
Benjamin Cole.
My father.
Another referenced “S.W. relocation.”
Simon Weller.
Relocation suggested Simon might not have been murdered.
Jade was informed by secure phone.
“You think my father could still be alive?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
Hope can be more dangerous than grief when it arrives without evidence.
We agreed not to tell Mom until we knew more.
Federal agents searched the storage facility.
The unit was empty except for a chair, chains bolted to the floor, and a wall covered with photographs.
My family.
Mom leaving church.
Me at the airport.
Jade buying groceries.
Allison meeting Martin.
Morales entering police headquarters.
Martin had tracked all of us.
On the rear wall, written in black marker, were four words:
EVERY FAMILY HAS A PRICE.
One photograph had been placed in the center.
It showed Jade standing beside a man in a nursing facility courtyard.
The picture was dated six months earlier.
Jade had never seen it.
The man was thin, white-haired, and seated in a wheelchair. Part of his face was hidden, but Jade recognized the watch on his wrist.
It had belonged to Simon.
The nursing facility was located in a small town three hours north.
Morales and federal agents left immediately.
I went with them despite every objection.
The facility operated under the name Peaceful Pines Memory Care. Corporate records showed it was owned by a charity connected to Aster Ridge.
The administrator claimed no resident named Simon Weller had ever lived there.
Morales showed a warrant.
We searched the rooms.
The man in the photograph was gone.
His bedroom had been cleaned, but beneath the mattress we found a page torn from a Bible.
A message was written along the margin.
JADE, I HEARD YOU SINGING IN THE HALL.
Jade often sang while cleaning Mom’s room.
Had Simon been near our house?
Or had Martin played recordings to torment him?
A nurse finally agreed to speak privately.
The resident’s registered name was Samuel West.
He had arrived fifteen years earlier under a private guardianship order signed by Judge Malcolm Reeves—one of the men Allison named on television.
“He wasn’t confused,” the nurse said. “Not until they increased his medication.”
“Who visited him?” Morales asked.
“A man named Mr. Vale. Sometimes an older police officer.”
“Kane?”
She identified his photograph.
The nurse also recognized Allison.
“She visited last week. They argued.”
“About what?”
“I only heard one sentence. She told Samuel, ‘Ryder found the box. I can’t protect you anymore.’”
Allison had known Simon was alive.
Perhaps Martin forced her to help imprison him.
Perhaps she had protected his location.
With Allison, both could be true.
Security footage showed a medical transport van taking Simon away two hours before our arrival.
The van was found abandoned beside a rural road.
Blood marked the rear floor.
A phone began ringing inside the glove compartment.
Morales answered on speaker.
Martin’s voice came through.
“Lena. Benjamin’s boy. I assume both of you are listening.”
“Where is Simon?” Morales asked.
“Alive.”
“For now?”
Martin laughed softly.
“I have no interest in killing him. Dead men become martyrs. Living men can be discredited.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“The microfilm.”
“The federal government already copied it.”
“I know.”
“Then it’s useless to you.”
“Not entirely. Benjamin hid more than financial records.”
Mom’s words returned.
Martin had spent thirty years searching for something.
Not merely the ledger.
“What else is on the reel?” I asked.
“The location of twenty-seven million dollars.”
Morales stared at me.
Martin continued.
“Money your father stole from me before he decided to become a hero.”
“My father didn’t keep it.”
“Are you certain?”
The line crackled.
Then another voice came through.
Weak.
Older.
“Jade is alive?”
Simon.
I moved closer to the phone.
“Yes. She’s alive.”
A sob escaped him.
Martin took the phone again.
“Bring Evelyn Cole to the old courthouse tomorrow at noon. She knows how to decode Benjamin’s final entry.”
“No.”
“Then Simon returns to the room where he has spent fifteen years.”
The call ended.
Morales immediately began tracing it.
I already knew Martin would be moving.
But he had made one mistake.
He believed Mom knew where the money was.
When I called her, she became silent.
“Mom?”
“There is no twenty-seven million dollars,” she said.
“Martin believes there is.”
“There was.”
The distinction chilled me.
“What happened to it?”
“Your father gave it away.”
“To whom?”
Mom took a slow breath.
“To the families Martin stole it from.”
“And Martin doesn’t know?”
“No.”
“Then what does he think you can decode?”
Mom’s voice dropped.
“The names of everyone who received it.”
May you like
Martin did not want the money.
He wanted to eliminate the final witnesses.
