Chapter 11
Detective Miller finally reached out, his gloved fingers taking the heavy leather ledger from Elena's outstretched hands. The silence in the foyer was absolute, save for the distant, rhythmic thrum of the police cruisers idling out on the suburban street. The detective flipped the book open to the final dog-eared page, his eyes scanning the cramped handwritten entries under the harsh glare of the hallway fixture.
"Well," Detective Miller muttered, running a thumb over the bottom margin where a signature was scrawled in dark, waterproof ink. "This matches the forensic samples from the federal subpoena down to the microscopic stroke." He looked up at Elena, his expression softening just a fraction. "It's signed by Julian Vance. Your biological son."
Elena felt the last remaining strength drain from her knees, and she would have hit the hardwood floor if Marcus hadn't instinctively caught her by the elbow, guiding her gently over to the mahogany bench against the wall.
"He did it," Elena whispered, staring down at her own shoes as the words finally made the nightmare real. "He poisoned his own father, he forged Marcus's signature to take the blame, and he came back today to steal the ledger so the police would never find out."
Detective Miller closed the ledger with a heavy thud that echoed through the quiet house. He signaled to one of the deputies by the door.
"Dispatch an APB for Julian Vance," the detective ordered sharply. "Check all regional transit hubs, rental car agencies, and his last known residential address downtown. He’s running solo now, which means he’s desperate."
"He won't go to a transit hub," Sarah interjected quietly from the edge of the hallway, stepping forward into the light. All eyes turned toward her.
Detective Miller raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know that, Ms. Vance? Are you advising the family or assisting the suspect?"
"I'm assisting the truth," Sarah replied, unfazed by the detective's sharp tone. "Julian doesn't use public transit when he's panicking. He keeps a go-bag and a secondary passport in a safety deposit box at the regional airport, but he never uses the main terminal. He rents private hangar space through a shell corporation under his father's old company name."
Marcus stared at Sarah with wide eyes, the pieces clicking together in his mind. "The airstrip outside West Kendall. Dad owned a share in a Cessna hanger out there years ago before he sold off the fleet."
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"Precisely," Sarah nodded, looking back at Detective Miller. "If you hurry, you'll catch him before he fuels up."
Detective Miller didn't hesitate. He tapped his shoulder radio, barking orders to the deputies outside to redirect their units toward the West Kendall airstrip. But just as the first cruiser tires squealed against the pavement outside, a sharp, piercing chime rang out from Sarah's pocket—her personal cell phone receiving an incoming video call from an unknown, blocked number.
