Chapter 7 - THE GHOST FROM ROUTE 9
Two months had passed since the night Victoria Sterling’s reign of terror collapsed beneath the blinding lights of the Crystal Pavilion. In downtown Boston, high above the bustling financial district on the twenty-fourth floor of a sleek modern office tower, the frosted-glass door read: MILLER FORENSIC INVESTIGATIONS & WHISTLEBLOWER PROTECTION.
Inside her private corner office, Elena sat behind a massive mahogany desk, her fingers flying across her mechanical keyboard. Though she was only twenty-one now, her reputation as the brilliant prodigy who dismantled the Sterling-Vance empire had spread like wildfire through corporate circles.
A soft knock interrupted her focus. Her administrative assistant, Sarah, poked her head in.
“Elena, you have a visitor in reception. He insists it’s urgent and refuses to state his business over the intercom.”
Elena frowned, pausing her typing. “Did he give a name?”
“He said you’d know him by the family he used to keep,” Sarah replied, dropping a sleek, heavy business card onto the corner of the desk.
Elena looked down. The card was unprinted, stark white heavy stock embossed with a subtle, unmistakable watermark: a stylized gold falcon—the private security seal of the Vance syndicate.
Marcus Vance.
Elena’s jaw tightened. She stood up, smoothing the front of her charcoal blazer, and walked out into the reception area.
Marcus stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over Boston Harbor. He wore a sharp black suit, his posture as rigid and military-precision as the day he pinned Victoria to the floor of the banquet hall.
“You’ve built a formidable sanctuary up here, Elena,” Marcus said, turning around as she approached.
“It’s not a sanctuary, Marcus, it’s an office,” Elena replied coldly, crossing her arms. “And security downstairs knows who you are. If you’re here on behalf of your uncle Robert or any remnants of Victoria’s old network, you’re wasting your time.”
Marcus held up both hands in a gesture of surrender, though a grim, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“I’m not here for Robert, and I certainly aren't here for Victoria. She’s currently spending her days scrubbing federal prison floors in Danbury,” Marcus said steadily. “I’m here because of what happened on Route 9 ten years ago—the night your father’s car went off the cliff.”
Elena went completely still. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
May you like
“What do you know about Route 9?” Elena asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“I know the police report on David Miller’s car accident was fabricated,” Marcus said, stepping closer. “And I know my uncle Robert was the one who signed off on the security detail that tailed your father’s car the night his brakes failed.”
