Chapter 7 - The Officer in the Room
I forced myself not to react.
Officer Grant slipped his phone into his pocket and continued watching me.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties who had spoken very little since arriving. Detective Ortiz had introduced him as a liaison from the organized financial crimes task force.
Until that moment, I had barely noticed him.
Now every detail felt dangerous.
The message on his phone had not included my name.
But I knew it referred to me.
I lowered my own phone and looked at Marissa.
“We should get coffee,” I said.
She frowned.
“There’s coffee here.”
“I need air.”
Officer Grant stepped away from the door.
“Detective Ortiz asked you not to leave.”
“I’m not leaving the building. There’s a café downstairs.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No,” I said. “You won’t.”
His eyes sharpened.
I smiled as though I had made a joke.
“My attorney and I need five minutes of privacy.”
Marissa understood.
She picked up her bag.
“We’ll be right back.”
Grant shifted closer.
“For your safety, one of us should accompany you.”
I looked directly at him.
“My safety has not improved since law enforcement became involved.”
The insult landed.
His mouth tightened.
Marissa and I walked into the hallway. Instead of taking the elevator, we entered the women’s restroom and locked ourselves inside.
“What is it?” she whispered.
I showed her Austin’s message and told her what I had seen on Grant’s phone.
“We need to contact Ortiz without alerting him.”
“What if she’s involved too?”
“I don’t think she is.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. But Austin said someone inside her unit. He didn’t say Ortiz.”
I sent Ortiz a message through the secure evidence portal rather than her phone.
GRANT MAY BE LEAKING INFORMATION. CHECK HIS DEVICE QUIETLY.
Then I sent the address Austin had provided.
Her response came less than a minute later.
STAY WHERE YOU ARE. DO NOT RETURN TO OFFICE.
Marissa and I left through the building’s side exit and crossed into a crowded pharmacy. From there, we called a rideshare under her name.
Detective Ortiz contacted us ten minutes later.
“Grant is gone,” she said.
“What happened?”
“He received a call, claimed it was from headquarters, and left the building. His official phone is now off.”
“Did he see the address?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then Dominic may already be moving Keaton.”
Ortiz was silent for a moment.
“I’m sending a separate federal team. You are not going there.”
“I understand.”
This time, I meant it.
Keaton had betrayed me, lied to me, forged my name, and helped place my career and home in danger.
I wanted him alive.
But I was not willing to become another hostage to save him.
Marissa and I relocated again, this time to the home of her older brother, a federal prosecutor who was traveling overseas. The house had security cameras, an alarm system, and a garage that closed behind us.
At 10:05 p.m., the team reached the Westbridge property.
At 10:11, gunshots were reported.
At 10:24, Detective Ortiz called.
“We have Austin.”
“Alive?”
“Yes. He was found in a storage shed behind the house.”
“Keaton?”
“Not here.”
“Bernice?”
“Not here.”
“Dominic?”
“No.”
My heart sank.
Ortiz continued.
“Grant was here.”
“Was?”
“He fled before the team entered. We found his vehicle abandoned nearby.”
Austin agreed to speak after receiving medical treatment. He had a fractured wrist, two broken ribs, and bruises across his back.
According to him, Dominic had never trusted the Hale brothers. Austin moved money and recruited borrowers, while Keaton used my personal and professional information to build fraudulent financial profiles.
Bernice controlled everything else.
She selected victims.
She stored documents.
She manipulated her sons.
And she kept detailed records to ensure no one could betray her without destroying themselves.
“Why did Austin call me?” I asked Ortiz.
“He believed you could convince prosecutors to protect him.”
“Can you?”
“That depends on what he provides.”
At midnight, Ortiz sent me a photograph recovered from the Westbridge house.
It showed Bernice standing beside Dominic at a charity banquet twelve years earlier.
Keaton had told me his mother met Dominic only recently through Austin.
Another lie.
In the photograph, Bernice wore a red evening gown and held Dominic’s arm. They were not standing like business associates.
They were standing like a couple.
On the back, someone had written:
TO BERNICE—THE ONLY WOMAN BRAVE ENOUGH TO BUILD AN EMPIRE WITH ME.
I thought of the lonely widow who appeared at our home almost every evening, asking for medication money and complaining that she had no one left except her sons.
She had not been lonely.
She had been supervising us.
At 1:15 a.m., a security alert appeared on Marissa’s phone.
Movement in the backyard.
We turned off the lights.
The exterior camera showed a figure climbing over the fence.
The person wore dark clothing and a baseball cap.
Marissa called the police while I watched the figure move toward the rear door.
Then the camera captured his face.
Keaton.
He looked injured and terrified.
I reached for the door.
Marissa grabbed my arm.
“Wait.”
Keaton looked directly into the camera.
“Claire,” he whispered. “I know you’re inside.”
He raised both hands.
“I escaped.”
Then another figure appeared behind him.
Keaton’s expression changed.
A gun pressed against the back of his head.
May you like
Bernice stepped into view.
“Open the door,” she said, “or I’ll finally teach my son what happens when he chooses his wife over his mother.”
