Chapter 7: The Journalist’s Offer
"If this is another threat, you've dialed the wrong number," Clara Vance’s voice cut through the static of the phone line, sharp and defensive.
"Clara, it's Julian Vance—no relation," he corrected himself quickly, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while keeping his eyes on the wet road. "You gave me your card three years ago outside my workshop. You told me if I ever wanted to know the truth about Arthur Sterling, I should call."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of shuffling papers. "Julian? Good grief, it's been years. You dropped off the face of the earth after marrying into that snake pit. Why are you calling me at this hour?"
"Because they hurt my daughter," Julian said, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to keep it steady. In the passenger seat, Maya had drifted off to sleep, her breathing soft and even. "They left physical marks on her, Clara. And when I confronted them, they treated it like a game. I took her out of there tonight, but they're already hunting us. Marcus is on our tail."
Silence stretched across the line for a long, agonizing moment. When Clara spoke again, all the cynicism had vanished from her tone, replaced by fierce, professional resolve. "Listen to me very carefully, Julian. Do not go to the police yet; Arthur has half the local precinct in his pocket. Do not go to a standard hospital; they control the intake records. Come straight to my place. I have secure servers, encrypted files, and a safe guest room where no one will find you."
She rattled off an address on the outskirts of the city, a modest, heavily fortified suburban home surrounded by motion-activated floodlights and overgrown oak trees.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Julian said.
"Drive carefully, Julian. And watch your mirrors. If you think you're being followed, circle the block twice before turning down my street." The line went dead with a click.
May you like
Julian followed her instructions meticulously, taking winding back roads and industrial alleyways to shake any potential tail. As he drove, the gravity of what he was doing settled over him like lead. He was declaring all-out war against one of the most powerful and ruthless men in the state. There was no turning back now. The peaceful, quiet life he had once hoped for was dead and buried beneath the broken glass of Elena’s wine glass.
When he finally pulled his truck into the gravel driveway of Clara’s house, the motion lights flared to life, illuminating a welcoming porch. The front door opened almost immediately, and Clara stood there in a heavy woolen sweater, gesturing frantically for them to come inside out of the freezing rain.
