Chapter 7 - The Tip-Off
The accusation dropped into the quiet hallway like a heavy stone. Sarah stepped back, shaking her head violently as her eyes darted between Vance and her husband. "Nobody tipped us off! We came here for a normal family weekend getaway! The booking confirmation came through my email app just yesterday morning!"
"Corporate emails can be spoofed by a third-grader, Mrs. Vance," the federal agent replied, his expression flat and devoid of any sympathy. He leaned against the stripped doorframe, his fingers casually tapping against the laminated badge in his hand. "Especially when the account used to generate that confirmation was registered under a server based out of the Cayman Islands—the exact same server your husband used to route his corporate shell companies before he vanished."
Mark clenched his jaw so hard I thought his teeth might fracture. "David is gone. We haven't heard a single word from him since the night the FBI raided this place. Why are you dragging his ghost back into this?"
"Because ghosts don't leave fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen," Vance countered smoothly, pointing a finger down the darkened corridor toward the back of the house.
A faint, unmistakable wispy curl of steam drifted out from the kitchen doorway, carrying the rich, distinct aroma of dark-roast coffee beans mixed with a hint of cinnamon—the exact brand David used to brew every single morning before the scandal broke.
Grandma Clara took a slow, trembling step forward, her eyes fixed on the distant kitchen threshold as if she expected her missing son to step out with a ceramic mug in his hand. "David?" she called out, her voice barely louder than a rustling leaf. "Is that you in there?"
No one answered, but the sound of a spoon clinking softly against porcelain rang out from the kitchen, clear and deliberate, as if someone were stirring a cup just out of sight.
Mark didn't wait for permission this time. He shoved past Agent Vance with a fierce grunt, sprinting down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen with his fists clenched. "Get out here!" Mark roared, turning the corner out of our sight.
A second later, a loud crash echoed from the back of the house, followed by the sound of shattering glass and Mark shouting a string of profanities that made Arthur flinch.
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Sarah screamed, running down the hall after her son, while Vance calmly drew a small service pistol from his holster, clicking off the safety with a metallic snip that sent cold fear straight into my veins.
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