Chapter 2 - Ghosts on Route 17That evening, the estate felt different. The quiet wasn't just solemn anymore; it was heavy with unseen eyes.
After putting Lily to bed in our second-floor quarters, I sat at the small wooden desk in the corner of the room. Outside, rain tapped softly against the high arched windows, casting long, wavering shadows across the oak floorboards.
Barnaby lay on the desk lamp's light circle.
My hands shook as I pulled a pair of small sewing scissors from my housekeeping kit. I carefully clipped the thick thread I had looped through the plush rabbit’s belly two years ago. The seam parted. I reached my fingers deep into the synthetic cotton stuffing, searching for the hard shape I had felt that morning.
My fingertips brushed against smooth metal.
I pulled it out.
It was a heavy, silver USB drive, completely sealed in a thin layer of waterproof plastic wrap. Stenciled onto the casing in tiny black letters was a serial code: MK-7704-B.
I stared at it, my stomach dropping into a cold abyss.
This drive hadn't been put here by Lily. It hadn't been in the toy when Daniel bought it at the truck stop.
Daniel.
My mind raced back three years. Daniel’s sudden death. The delivery truck going through the guardrail on Route 17. The police report calling it a tragic mechanical brake failure. The sudden, anonymous charitable foundation that had paid every cent of Lily’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar heart surgery six months later.
"He didn't just drive a truck," I whispered to the empty room, my voice barely a breath.
Daniel hadn't been killed in a random accident. He had been carrying something. Something dangerous enough to warrant a murder—and valuable enough to buy his daughter’s life from beyond the grave.
A soft knock at the door made me leap out of my chair.
I thrust the flash drive into my sweater pocket, tossed the stuffed rabbit onto the bed, and opened the door two inches.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway was Mrs. Doyle. She held a silver tray with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a small plate of butter biscuits.
"May I come in, Elena?" she asked softly.
I hesitated, then opened the door wider. "Of course."
Mrs. Doyle walked in, set the tray on the desk, and immediately locked her gaze on the ripped seam of the plush rabbit lying on the bed sheet. She didn't look surprised. She looked exhausted.
"You found it," she said flatly.
I froze, stepping between her and the bed. "Found what? I was just mending my daughter's toy—"
"Elena, please," Mrs. Doyle interrupted, raising a hand. She walked to the window, pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut, and turned to face me. "I have worked in this house for thirty-four years. I was here when Vincent’s younger sister, Clara, ran away. I was here when Vincent’s brother Thomas took over the logistics contracts. And I was here the night Daniel Reyes called this house from a payphone on Route 17."
My heart stopped. "You... you knew Daniel?"
"Daniel was Thomas Marquette's personal driver," Mrs. Doyle said quietly. "Not a commercial trucker. He drove high-value, sensitive cargo for the Marquette group. He was an honest boy, Elena. Too honest for the work they asked him to do."
"He told me he drove produce," I whispered, tears burning the backs of my eyes. "He told me he was driving lettuce and citrus from Jersey to upstate."
"That was the cover," Mrs. Doyle said. "Three years ago, Thomas Marquette died of a sudden 'heart attack.' Julian—Thomas’s son—took control of the distribution network. Daniel discovered that Julian was using the fruit crates to smuggle unlicensed pharmaceutical compounds and offshore financial ledgers. Daniel tried to go to Vincent to stop it. But Julian found out first."
The room seemed to tilt. The floor beneath my feet felt unsteady.
"The brakes," I breathed out. "The guardrail on Route 17."
"Julian cut the lines," Mrs. Doyle confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Daniel knew he was in danger. The night before he died, he slipped into the main study here while the estate was empty. He stole the master ledger drive—the only evidence that could put Julian in prison for life and strip him of his inheritance. Daniel hid it. He told Julian he would release it if anything happened to him or his family."
She stepped closer, looking at me with deep, solemn eyes.
"Julian killed him anyway. But he never found the drive. For three years, Julian has been hunting for it. He searched your apartment after the funeral. He tapped your bank accounts. When he couldn't find it, he assumed Daniel had hidden it somewhere in the city."
"Then why am I here?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Why did you hire me?"
"I didn't hire you," Mrs. Doyle said softly. "Vincent did."
I stared at her, completely bewildered. "Vincent? But he barely knows my name!"
"Vincent paid for Lily’s heart surgery, Elena," Mrs. Doyle revealed, dropping the final piece of the puzzle into place. "When Daniel died, an encrypted file reached Vincent’s personal desk. It contained a message from Daniel, giving Vincent the location of the surgery trust fund for Lily, and warning him that Julian was corrupting the family business. Vincent couldn't prove Julian killed Daniel without the ledger. So he waited. He brought you here to keep you safe, where Julian couldn't touch you without triggering an open war."
Before I could process her words, the brass door handle clicked.
The heavy mahogany door creaked open.
May you like
Standing in the threshold, illuminated by the dim hall lights, was Julian Marquette. He was holding a glass of scotch in one hand, his wicked smile glinting in the dark.
"What a touching family reunion," Julian purred, stepping into the room. "I’ll take the drive now, Elena."
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