Chapter 7
The heavy metal thumb drive landed squarely in Clara’s palms with a dull, heavy thud that felt like lead.
Detective Vance didn't raise his hands; instead, he slowly turned around to face the armed officer standing at the top of the kitchen stairs.
The man in the doorway was broad-shouldered, wearing a plain gray suit that lacked the polish of a local precinct detective, carrying an official badge pinned to his belt.
“Agent Miller,” Vance said, blowing a final plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “You’re late. I expected you twenty minutes ago.”
The federal agent didn't lower his weapon, his eyes locked onto Vance with a mixture of professional contempt and cold fury.
“Put your hands behind your back, Vance,” Agent Miller commanded, stepping down the first two stairs. “You’re leaking federal surveillance data to civilian felons for kickbacks.”
Clara clutched the thumb drive against her apron, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she looked between the two men.
Upstairs, little Lily peeked around the corner of the kitchen island, her big blue eyes wide with confusion at the drawn gun.
“Clara, who’s that?” Lily whispered, clutching her yellow dress with both hands.
“Go back to the living room, sweetie,” Clara said without turning around, her voice shaking violently. “Everything is going to be fine.”
Vance slowly raised his hands, the cigarette dropping from his fingers to hiss out on the concrete floor.
“You’re making a mistake, Agent,” Vance said, his tone remaining infuriatingly calm. “If you arrest me right now, the trust fund stays locked in the Swiss bank indefinitely. The child gets nothing.”
Agent Miller stopped on the stairs, his grip on the service pistol tightening until his knuckles turned white.
“The child’s welfare isn't your concern, Vance,” Miller said through clenched teeth. “Neither is the money.”
“Isn't it?” Vance asked, tilting his head with a mocking smile. “Ask the agent beside you how his brother’s parole board was funded last month.”
Clara gasped, spinning around to stare at the federal agent standing in her kitchen doorway.
“Your brother?” Clara whispered, the blood draining from her face as she looked at Agent Miller’s uniform patch. “Your last name is Miller... My brother’s name is Thomas Miller.”
Agent Miller’s face went completely slack, the absolute confidence in his posture shattering in a fraction of a second.
He lowered the barrel of his gun by a single inch, his eyes darting toward Clara with a look of pure, unmitigated panic.
“Clara, don't listen to him,” Miller said, his voice cracking with desperation. “He’s playing mind games to get out of the cuffs.”
“Is he?” Clara asked, her voice dropping into a cold, lethal register as she held up the black thumb drive. “Because this drive has my brother’s prison transfer orders saved right here in the root directory.”
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Miller took a step forward, reaching out a hand imploringly. “Clara, let me explain—”
Before he could finish the sentence, the front door was kicked off its hinges with a deafening crash, and three armed tactical officers swarmed into the house.
