Chapter 5 - THE BODY THAT DISAPPEARED
The funeral home had cameras.
At least, that was what Aunt Beatrice claimed.
Mason didn't believe her.
Neither did I.
We drove there under police escort.
The building was dark.
Its front doors were locked.
Beatrice stood beside me, trembling.
“This is impossible.”
Mason looked at her.
“You own the building.”
“Yes.”
“You control the cameras.”
“Yes.”
“Then explain how a body disappeared.”
She had no answer.
Inside, Clara's coffin sat open.
Empty.
The white lining was disturbed.
There were drag marks on the floor.
Mason photographed everything.
Then he found a black fiber caught on the coffin handle.
“Someone wearing tactical clothing.”
Derek stared at it.
“Victor.”
Mason nodded.
A back door had been forced open.
Outside, tire tracks led toward the highway.
Then I noticed something.
A small silver bracelet lay near the doorway.
Clara's.
I picked it up.
She had worn it every anniversary.
My fingers tightened around it.
Someone had taken her body.
But why?
Unless...
The body contained evidence.
Mason called the morgue.
The preliminary report had been completed.
But the official autopsy had not.
That meant whoever took Clara had taken the one piece of evidence that could prove how she died.
We returned to my house.
The blue box was now in police custody.
Mason opened one of the USB drives.
There were hundreds of files.
Shipment records.
Employee payments.
Private contracts.
Names of politicians.
Judges.
Corporate executives.
And then we found something that made me stop breathing.
A spreadsheet labeled:
PROJECT HORIZON
My employee number appeared on the list.
So did Clara's.
So did Derek's.
Beside our names was a column.
RISK LEVEL.
Mine said:
LOW.
Derek's said:
HIGH.
Clara's said:
ELIMINATE.
I stared at the screen.
“Why me?”
Derek whispered, “Because they needed you.”
“For what?”
He opened another file.
My employment contract.
I had always thought I was a transportation manager.
But buried in the legal documents was another designation.
Authorized Secure Transport Operator.
I had unknowingly transported sensitive materials for Vance Logistics.
The high-security assignments weren't random.
They were designed to keep me away from certain events.
Three days ago, Vance had sent me hundreds of miles away.
The same night Clara was killed.
Mason looked at me.
“They planned your absence.”
My stomach turned.
Then another file appeared.
A photograph.
Richard Vance.
Standing beside another man.
The other man was older.
Silver hair.
Expensive suit.
I recognized him immediately.
My father.
Arthur.
I stared at the screen.
“What the hell?”
Derek shook his head.
“I've never seen that picture.”
My father was brought into the room.
He looked at the photograph.
His eyes widened.
He struck his wheelchair twice.
Then he pointed at the screen.
He was trying to speak.
“Ar...thur...”
I knelt.
“Dad?”
His hand trembled.
He pointed at the older man beside Vance.
Then he pointed at himself.
Mason zoomed in.
There was a date beneath the photograph.
Twenty-three years earlier.
The caption read:
Founding Meeting — Vance International Holdings.
I looked at my father.
“You knew Vance before I did.”
My father nodded.
My mother began crying.
Derek looked stunned.
“What aren't you telling us?”
Arthur reached into his pocket.
He pulled out an old key.
He placed it in my hand.
Then he pointed toward the basement.
Mason followed us downstairs.
Behind an old storage cabinet was a steel door.
The key fit.
Inside was a hidden room.
Files covered the walls.
Photographs.
Old newspapers.
Bank records.
And a single framed photograph.
It showed my father, Richard Vance, and a third man.
The third man was dead.
His name was Samuel Vance.
Richard's older brother.
On the wall beneath the photograph, my father had written three words:
HE STARTED IT.
Then we heard footsteps upstairs.
Someone had entered the house.
Mason drew his weapon.
The lights went out.
May you like
And from the darkness came a man's voice.
“You should have stayed at the funeral.”
