Chapter 11 - The Senator Who Came to Pray
Senator Elias Voss arrived at our house the next morning carrying flowers.
That was how men like him operated.
Not with masks.
Not with threats.
With cameras.
Three black SUVs stopped outside.
Reporters surged forward.
Voss stepped out wearing a charcoal overcoat and the sympathetic expression of a man attending a funeral.
“I wanted to personally welcome Evelyn home,” he told the cameras.
My mother watched through the curtain.
“He knows we found the ledger.”
Agent Lane agreed.
“But we can’t prove E.V. is him.”
“Then why is he here?”
Rebecca answered.
“To see who looks scared.”
Voss requested five private minutes with Mom.
Lane fitted the room with recording equipment.
Then we let him inside.
The senator hugged my mother.
She didn’t hug him back.
“Evelyn,” he said softly. “What this state did to you was unforgivable.”
“You were lieutenant governor when I was convicted.”
Pain crossed his face with theatrical precision.
“If I had known—”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
Mom smiled.
“My husband trusted you.”
“I cared deeply for Aaron.”
“You attended our barbecue twice.”
“He was a good man.”
“He kept records.”
The senator’s eyes changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
So did Lane.
“Records?”
“About county corruption.”
Voss sighed.
“I heard rumors.”
“Did Aaron ever show you anything?”
“No.”
Another lie.
The ledger showed payments to E.V.
But still circumstantial.
Then Voss leaned closer.
“Evelyn, people will come to you now. Journalists. Lawyers. Political activists. Some will try to convince you every powerful person is your enemy.”
“Are you?”
He smiled.
“I’m your friend.”
Mom stared at him.
“My husband said the same thing about Walter Pike.”
Voss’s jaw tightened.
There.
A crack.
He stood.
“I should let you rest.”
As he reached the front door, Jamie came downstairs.
The senator stopped.
Jamie stopped too.
For a second neither moved.
Then Jamie whispered something.
“Blue boat.”
Voss’s face drained.
“What did you say?”
Jamie’s breathing quickened.
“Blue boat.”
The senator looked toward us.
“I don’t know what he means.”
Jamie backed against the wall.
“Yes, you do.”
Agent Lane stepped closer.
“Jamie?”
My brother pointed.
“I remember him.”
Voss laughed softly.
“He was a toddler.”
Jamie shook his head.
“Dad took me fishing once.”
Mom stared.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes.”
Jamie’s eyes remained locked on Voss.
“You were there.”
The senator stepped toward him.
“Children invent memories.”
Jamie flinched.
And suddenly another memory surfaced.
Not mine.
His.
He described a blue fishing boat.
Dad arguing with Voss.
Uncle Patrick standing near the engine.
A metal box.
Voss yelling that Aaron had “no idea what he was destroying.”
Then Jamie remembered something no newspaper had ever reported.
Voss had a tattoo near his right wrist.
A tiny compass.
The senator covered his wrist.
Too late.
Agent Lane saw.
So did everyone else.
Voss left without another word.
That afternoon, a judge approved a warrant to search a marina property connected to one of Voss’s donors.
The blue boat was gone.
But divers found a metal box beneath the dock.
Inside were water-damaged documents.
Most unreadable.
One wasn’t.
A signed partnership agreement between Voss, Caldwell, Brennan, and Patrick Cross.
Founders Trust had been their financial vehicle.
Reed had been legal counsel.
My uncle was not a frightened bystander.
He was a partner.
Mom sat down when she heard.
“Aaron’s own brother.”
Rebecca whispered, “That’s why Patrick took the ledger.”
But why keep pages?
Why give them to Jamie?
Maybe guilt.
Maybe insurance.
Maybe Patrick had spent years expecting Voss to kill him too.
At 9:30 p.m., Agent Lane received an urgent call.
Patrick Cross had been found.
Alive.
In a motel outside Flagstaff.
He had contacted federal authorities himself.
And he wanted immunity.
Mom laughed bitterly.
“Of course he does.”
Lane looked at us.
“He says he has the remaining ledger.”
Rebecca stepped forward.
“Then bring him in.”
“He won’t travel.”
“Why?”
Lane’s face hardened.
“Because he says Senator Voss has someone inside the federal task force.”
The room went silent.
Then Lane’s phone buzzed again.
A photograph.
Patrick sitting in his motel room holding the leather ledger.
Behind him, reflected in the mirror, stood a man holding a gun.
May you like
The next message arrived immediately.
STOP DIGGING OR PATRICK IS NEXT.
