Chapter 8 - THE WRONG HOSTAGE
Detective Harper traced the call to an industrial area near the river, but the phone went dark before police could narrow it further.
Betsy was missing.
She had left the hospital to pick up clothes for Amy and never returned. Her car was found outside a grocery store with the driver’s door unlocked.
I blamed myself.
Harper did not allow me to join the search. “You are a target, Connor. Going out there gives them another hostage.”
“She’s my aunt.”
“And we’ll bring her home.”
At two in the morning, officers opened the storage unit from Teresa’s receipt. Inside were boxes of new appliances, jewelry, liquor, and furniture purchased with my accounts.
They also found files on six other people.
All were relatives.
Teresa had not started with me.
She had been borrowing small amounts, opening cards, and forging signatures for years. Most family members never noticed because she paid minimum balances using money stolen from someone else.
A financial chain built on trust.
A house of cards built out of family guilt.
One file belonged to Betsy. It contained a life-insurance policy Teresa had secretly purchased in her name.
That changed everything.
The police issued an endangered-person alert.
At dawn, Frederick’s fever finally broke. Amy held him and cried with relief. For one fragile minute, we forgot police, forged deeds, and hidden offices.
Then Amy told me something she had remembered.
“Teresa used to meet Martin at an old seafood warehouse. She said she bought party supplies there for cash.”
“Where?”
“Near the Cumberland River. Red doors. A faded fish painted on the wall.”
I called Harper.
She knew the place.
The building had been closed for twelve years.
Police surrounded it shortly after sunrise.
Through a loudspeaker, Harper ordered everyone inside to come out.
Nobody answered.
Then smoke began pushing through a broken upstairs window.
A figure appeared behind the glass, pounding both fists against it.
May you like
Betsy.
And behind her, flames climbed the wall.
