Chapter 2 - THE ROOM THEY WANTED BURIEDDetective Sergeant Miller took control immediately.
“No burial.”
Beatrice exploded.
“You cannot stop a funeral!”
Miller looked at her.
“I just did.”
Forensics went upstairs.
My mother kept crying.
Too loudly.
Too consistently.
Derek sat near the wall.
I stayed beside Lily.
Then Miller came downstairs holding a clear evidence bag.
Inside:
Clara’s phone.
Destroyed.
The screen shattered.
Frame bent.
“Found it in the upstairs wet-bar disposal.”
I looked at Derek.
He closed his eyes.
Miller continued.
“Bedroom door shows forced entry.”
The house changed.
What had been grief became a crime scene.
Then Dad started making noise again.
He pushed at the side panel beneath his wheelchair seat.
I opened it.
Inside were papers wrapped in plastic.
And a digital recorder.
My father looked at me.
His eyes were wet.
“You saved these?”
He nodded.
Miller took the recorder.
Pressed play.
Static.
Then Clara.
“You can't do this, Derek!”
My knees weakened.
Her voice.
Alive.
Afraid.
Derek shouted:
“Give me the phone!”
Then:
“If Alex sees those shipment records, everything falls apart!”
Clara answered:
“He deserves to know!”
Crash.
Door breaking.
Then my mother.
“Derek, stop dragging her!”
I stared at Teresa.
The recording continued.
“Lock her inside until they come for the ledger.”
The recording stopped.
Nobody breathed.
Miller looked at the papers.
Shipping logs.
Vanguard Logistics.
My employer.
Routes I recognized.
Truck numbers.
Container IDs.
But the listed cargo did not match what I had hauled.
Medical equipment was labeled where I remembered transporting sealed machinery.
Agricultural imports appeared on routes with military-grade security.
Miller looked at me.
“What did you carry during your last assignment?”
“I was told communications hardware.”
“Did you inspect it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Sealed cargo.”
He looked at the paperwork.
“Your wife may have discovered falsified manifests.”
I stared at Clara’s coffin.
My wife had died because of my job.
Or because of what someone used my job to hide.
Then the front door opened.
Four men in suits entered.
At the center was Marcus Vance.
CEO of Vanguard Logistics.
The man whose signature sat on my paychecks.
He looked at Clara’s coffin.
Then at me.
“Alex.”
His voice sounded almost compassionate.
“I heard about the tragedy.”
Miller stepped forward.
“This is an active scene.”
Marcus smiled.
“Of course.”
Then he looked at the recorder.
And for the smallest fraction of a second—
May you like
his expression changed.
He knew.
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