Chapter 5 - The Stash Behind the Bleachers
The flickering light of the computer monitor cast long, dramatic shadows across the dark study. David stared at the screen in absolute disbelief, his hand frozen on the mouse. The video played on a continuous loop: Marcus, wearing the exact same black hoodie he had on tonight, nervously looking over his shoulder before exchanging a heavy brown envelope for a small, unmarked plastic baggie. The audio, muffled by the wind, picked up a brief exchange about "delivery schedules" and "the rest of the payment by Friday."
Maya let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Tears welled instantly in her eyes, spilling over her lashes as she gripped the back of David’s chair for support.
"No... no, that can't be him," Maya whispered, her voice breaking entirely. "Marcus isn't... he wouldn't get involved in something like that. That's drug money, David. Is our son dealing drugs?"
David didn't answer. A cold, heavy numbness spread through his chest, replacing the anger he had felt just minutes earlier. He felt hollowed out, as if the foundation of everything he believed about his family had just crumbled into dust. He remembered the long hours at the freight yard, the missed birthdays, the sacrifices made so Marcus could have tutoring, nice clothes, and a comfortable life. And this was what the boy was doing behind their backs.
"Friday," David said, his voice dangerously low. "The video was timestamped three days ago. That means whatever delivery they're talking about hasn't happened yet, or... or there's another drop coming up."
"We need to talk to him right now," Maya insisted, turning toward the door with frantic energy. "We need to go into his room, wake him up if we have to, and get the truth out of him. We can't let him ruin his life, David!"
"No," David said, holding up a hand to stop her. He closed the laptop lid with a definitive snap, plunging the desk back into semi-darkness. "If we go storming in there now, he'll just shut down, lie to our faces, or worse, try to run away. We need to be smart about this. We need proof, and we need to know who he's dealing with."
"How can you be so calm?" Maya cried softly, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her beige blouse. "Our son is mixed up in neighborhood crime!"
"I'm not calm, Maya. I'm furious," David said, standing up so abruptly the chair rolled back and hit the wall. "But storming in like a bull in a china shop got us into this mess. We need to watch him, track his movements tomorrow, and find out what's really in that backpack he keeps locked in his closet."
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Before Maya could reply, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from down the hallway. It was the distinct click of the front door latch releasing, followed by the soft creak of the hinges swinging open into the night air.
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