Chapter 9 - The Shot Through the Window
Glass flew across the living room.
Aaron pulled his weapon.
“DOWN!”
I dragged Dad behind the brick wall.
Another crack.
Wood splintered beside the door.
Marjorie screamed.
The sedan accelerated.
Aaron ran toward his cruiser, radio already in his hand.
“Black four-door sedan heading east on County Road Twelve!”
Keene crouched beside Dad.
“You hit?”
Dad shook his head.
I checked his arms.
Nothing.
Marjorie was on the porch floor.
Blood ran down her cheek.
Just a glass cut.
I looked toward the road.
The sedan disappeared.
This was no longer about embarrassing my father.
Somebody had fired into his house.
Aaron called for backup.
Within minutes, the street filled with sirens.
Neighbors came outside.
Phones appeared.
The perfect little family story Marjorie had built for the town was gone.
Special Agent Holt arrived before midnight.
Short gray hair.
Plain suit.
No wasted words.
She looked at the bullet damage, the box of documents, the mystery pills, then at Marjorie.
“Mrs. Reed, you need an attorney.”
Marjorie said nothing.
Holt turned to me.
“Commander Reed?”
“Yes.”
“We need to separate everybody.”
Dad reached for me.
“I want her here.”
Holt softened slightly.
“I understand, sir.”
“No, you don’t.”
He pointed at Marjorie.
“For ten years, I let that woman tell me my daughter didn’t care about me.”
Marjorie looked away.
Dad’s voice cracked.
“And I believed her.”
My chest tightened.
“Dad.”
He shook his head.
“Not now.”
That hurt.
But he wasn’t rejecting me.
He was ashamed.
There was a difference.
Holt took Marjorie into the dining room.
Another agent interviewed Dad.
Keene and I stood in the kitchen.
“What’s your connection to Victor Hale?” I asked.
“Professional.”
“That’s not enough.”
He looked at me.
“Hale was under internal review before he retired.”
“For what?”
“Procurement irregularities.”
“You think he stole federal money.”
“We think he directed contracts to companies he secretly controlled.”
“And my father’s foundation?”
“May have been useful as a pass-through.”
I looked toward the dining room.
“Marjorie knows him.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We found phone records.”
My stomach tightened.
“How often?”
“Forty-three calls in six months.”
I stared at him.
“When were you going to tell me?”
“When I had something solid.”
“Somebody shot at my father tonight.”
His expression hardened.
“I know.”
My phone buzzed.
I nearly threw it.
Another unknown message.
THIS ONE included a video.
I pressed play.
Security camera footage.
Date stamp: five nights earlier.
My father’s kitchen.
Marjorie stood beside the counter.
Dale entered.
They argued.
No audio.
Then Dale handed her something.
A small bottle.
She put it in the cabinet.
The same cabinet where I found the unlabeled pills.
The video ended.
Then one final line appeared.
ASK HER WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR MOTHER.
For a second, I couldn’t move.
My mother had been dead twenty-one years.
Car accident.
Rainy night.
Highway 16.
Everybody knew that.
I walked into the dining room.
Marjorie looked up.
I placed the phone in front of her.
May you like
“What happened to my mother?”
For the first time all night, she began to cry.
