Chapter 8 - The Woman Who Ran
Marjorie made it six steps.
I caught her at the porch railing.
She twisted away.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Stop running.”
“Get away from me!”
Dad came outside.
“Marjorie!”
She froze.
Not because of me.
Because of him.
Dad stood in the doorway looking broken.
“Who is Victor Hale?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Keene came outside.
“You recognized the name.”
“No.”
“You dropped your suitcase.”
“I was startled.”
“Victor Hale served as a contracting officer at Naval Facilities Command until fourteen months ago.”
Marjorie stared at him.
Keene continued.
“He’s also connected to Blue Ridge Restoration.”
Dad looked between them.
“What does that have to do with my wife?”
Keene didn’t answer.
He was giving Marjorie the chance.
She stayed silent.
Then my phone buzzed.
Another anonymous message.
LOOK IN HER CAR.
I showed Keene.
He frowned.
“This person is close.”
Marjorie moved toward her car.
I stepped in front of her.
“No.”
“That is my property.”
Dad pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling the sheriff.”
Her eyes widened.
“Robert, don’t be stupid.”
There it was again.
The old trick.
Make him doubt himself.
He looked at her.
Then dialed.
Ten minutes later, Deputy Aaron Mills arrived.
He had known me since high school.
He looked uncomfortable from the second he stepped out of his cruiser.
“Natalie?”
“Hey, Aaron.”
“I heard you left the Navy.”
I almost laughed.
Behind me, Keene said, “She didn’t.”
Aaron recognized him.
His posture snapped straight.
“Oh.”
Dad explained the situation.
Aaron couldn’t search Marjorie’s vehicle without consent, a warrant, or probable cause.
Marjorie smiled for the first time in an hour.
“Then I’m leaving.”
Aaron looked at Dad.
“The vehicle registered to her?”
Dad answered.
“Both of us.”
Marjorie’s smile vanished.
Dad walked inside and returned with the spare key.
“Robert.”
He opened the trunk.
Inside were groceries.
A blanket.
Two folding chairs.
A cardboard box.
Marjorie rushed forward.
“Don’t!”
Aaron immediately lifted one hand.
“Ma’am, stay back.”
Dad opened the box.
Files.
Dozens of them.
Foundation documents.
Insurance paperwork.
Medical forms.
Bank statements.
And one blue folder labeled:
R. REED - CAPACITY.
Dad stared at it.
His fingers shook.
I opened the folder.
Inside was a letter from a private physician.
It described my father as suffering “progressive cognitive decline.”
It recommended that financial control be transferred to his spouse.
The date was three weeks earlier.
Dad read it twice.
Then whispered,
“I’ve never met this doctor.”
Marjorie’s expression went flat.
No tears.
No excuses.
Nothing.
That scared me more than panic.
Dad looked at her.
“You were trying to have me declared incompetent.”
She whispered,
“You were making it easy.”
I felt something cold move through my chest.
Aaron stepped closer.
“Mrs. Reed, I think you should remain here until we sort this out.”
She smiled at him.
“You have no idea what you’re standing in.”
Then a car turned onto the street.
Black sedan.
No plates visible from the front.
It slowed in front of the house.
Keene moved immediately.
“Everybody inside.”
The rear window rolled down.
Something flashed.
Keene shoved Dad behind the porch column.
May you like
I heard the sharp crack before I understood what it was.
The front window exploded.
