Chapter 7
Vance’s eyes locked onto the small silver key in Tracey’s tiny palm, and for a split second, his professional composure slipped, revealing a predatory flash of triumph. He took a slow step forward, reaching out his hand to take the evidence before anyone could react.
"Where did you find that, sweetheart?" Vance asked, his voice dropping into a disturbingly gentle tone that made Clara’s skin crawl.
"Under the floorboards," Tracey answered honestly, blinking her dark eyes. "My grandpa dropped it when the big man in the coat started yelling."
"Tracey, don't talk to him!" Arthur barked, lunging forward to swat her hand down, but he was too slow. Vance’s fingers had already closed around the cold metal key, his thumb running over the engraved tag with practiced satisfaction.
"Archive Vault B," Vance murmured, reading the tag aloud as a triumphant grin spread across his face. "The exact room where the original blueprint revisions for the north district drainage system are kept under lock and key. The same revisions your firm claimed were destroyed in the fire last November."
Clara stared at Arthur in horror. "The fire... you told me the entire records room burned down. You said our liability was completely wiped out!"
"Records burn, Clara, but concrete foundations don't," Vance said smoothly, pocketing the key with meticulous care. He pulled out a pair of polished steel handcuffs from his trench coat pocket with his other hand, the metallic clink sounding like a death knell in the quiet park. "Mr. Sterling, you're coming with me downtown. And Mrs. Hayes, I suggest you stay close by. Your name is on the secondary access log for that vault, and the federal marshal is already waiting at your apartment."
Leo whimpered softly against Clara’s shoulder, finally picking up on the heavy, suffocating panic filling the air. "Mommy, why is that man talking about handcuffs?"
"Don't look, Leo. Just hold on to me," Clara whispered fiercely, turning her back on Vance and Arthur as she began walking briskly toward the park exit, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
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She had just reached the edge of the grass when a heavy black sedan pulled up directly onto the pedestrian path, blocking her escape route. The rear door swung open automatically, and a woman in a sharp navy blue suit stepped out, holding an official laminated badge that caught the pale afternoon light.
"Federal Marshal Davies," the woman announced, her voice echoing across the lawn. "Nobody leaves this park until the perimeter search is fully concluded."
