Chapter 10 - The Former Investigator
The man had deep-set blue eyes, a graying beard, and the tired, cynical expression of someone who had seen too many corrupt cases buried. He wore a faded trench coat over a flannel shirt, and his posture carried the unmistakable stiffness of an old back injury. He extended the mug toward Clara.
"Drink half, dump the rest on your hands to wash off the mud," Miller whispered, his voice like gravel grinding together. "Jax said you were smart. Let’s see if she was right."
Clara took the mug with trembling hands, taking a cautious sip of the bitter, lukewarm liquid. It burned her throat, instantly chasing away the numbing chill that had settled into her bones ever since she left the church. She looked around the dark warehouse, her eyes wide with lingering adrenaline.
"How did you know where I was?" she whispered back, keeping her voice low.
"I didn't," Miller replied, standing up with a quiet groan, favoring his left leg. "I knew where they would push you. This warehouse belongs to one of Julian Vance’s dormant shipping fronts. It’s the only place within a three-mile radius where his security team can operate without tripping local municipal sensors."
Miller pulled a small, battered metal flashlight from his pocket, clicking it on to reveal a makeshift desk set up behind a stack of tarp-covered machinery. A vintage laptop sat open on the folding table, its screen casting a pale green glow across a collection of printed financial transcripts and bank statements.
Clara stood up, smoothing down her ruined dress as best she could, and stepped out from behind the crates. She walked over to the makeshift desk and placed the damp, crumpled letter right in the center of the green glow.
"Mark didn't just steal my father’s company," Clara said, her voice hard and clear. "He’s been laundering money through these shipping fronts for years. Elena helped him forge the asset transfer documents."
Miller leaned over the letter, adjusting a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He didn't speak for a long, agonizing minute. He pulled a magnifying glass from his coat pocket, carefully scanning the signature blocks, the routing stamps, and the micro-watermark embedded in the cream stationery.
"This isn't just a corporate takeover, kid," Miller finally muttered, looking up at Clara with a dark, intense expression. "This is the master ledger for Project Triton. It ties Julian Vance, your fiancé, and three sitting federal judges directly into an offshore slush fund worth over forty million dollars."
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Before Clara could process the magnitude of the discovery, the vintage laptop screen suddenly flicked violently, flashing a bright red warning prompt across the monitor.
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