Chapter 7 - The Trap at Whistler Creek
By Wednesday evening, the sky had turned the color of bruised iron. Rain had finally begun to fall, a steady, freezing drizzle that slickened the roads and plastered dead leaves against the curbs.
Tony was sitting in our kitchen when Dakota and I walked in through the front door.
He looked up from the table, saw Dakota standing beside me with soot on her face and the manila folder under her arm, and dropped his coffee mug. The ceramic shattered on the hardwood, splashing dark liquid across his trousers.
“Jen... what is she doing here?” Tony stammered, scrambling to his feet, backing away until his spine hit the kitchen cabinets. “I told you Marcus is handling this! You don't know what you're doing!”
“Marcus tried to burn her alive two hours ago, Tony,” I said, my voice dangerously calm.
Tony’s face drained of what little color it had left. “What?”
“Two men broke into her house,” Dakota said, taking a step toward him, her voice vibrating with cold hatred. “They tore open my furniture. They threw an incendiary bottle onto my carpet. Marcus sent them to kill me while you sat here drinking coffee in your heated kitchen.”
“No... no, Marcus told me he was just going to buy the property through a third-party auction!” Tony gasped, his hands clawing at his hair. “He swore to me nobody was going to get hurt!”
“He lied to you, Tony,” I said, stepping forward and dropping the brown leather pouch onto the granite island. “Just like you lied to me. Just like you lied to the state troopers. Just like you lied to Toby Miller’s family for seven years.”
Tony looked down at the pouch. When he recognized it, his knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the sink to keep from falling.
“You went to the bank,” he whispered. “You opened Box 414.”
“I have everything, Tony. The contract. The photos. The dashcam footage. It’s already uploaded to the State Attorney General’s secure tip portal,” I lied smoothly. “The Hamilton bureau is dispatching investigators right now. But the prosecutor gave me one option for you. Exactly one.”
Tony looked up at me, his eyes wide with the desperate, pathetic hope of a drowning man. “What? What option, Jen? I’ll do anything! I swear to God I’ll do anything!”
“You’re going to call Marcus right now,” I said, pulling my phone from my pocket and placing it next to the leather pouch. “You’re going to tell him Dakota was spooked by the break-in. Tell him she grabbed the file, panicked, and called you to negotiate a cash drop before she flees the state.”
Tony’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. “Where? Where am I supposed to tell him to meet?”
“The old county water reservoir off Whistler Creek Road,” Dakota said, her voice hard as iron. “Mile Marker 42. Exactly where Toby was left on the shoulder.”
Tony flinched violently. “No... not there. Marcus will know it’s a setup!”
“Marcus is arrogant,” I snapped, leaning across the counter until my face was inches from his. “Marcus thinks you’re a spineless coward who will do whatever he commands to save your own skin. He will believe you because he *wants* to believe he can finish this tonight. You tell him Dakota will hand over the originals for two hundred thousand in cash. Tell him she’s waiting in the maintenance shed near the weir gate.”
Tony stared at the phone. His entire body was shivering as if he had severe hypothermia.
“If I do this... Jen, what happens to me?” he whimpered. “Do I still go to prison?”
I looked at him with unadulterated contempt.
“You’ve been a prisoner of your own cowardice for seven years, Tony. At least in state prison, you won't have to pretend you're a good man anymore.”
For ten agonizing seconds, the only sound was the refrigerator humming and the rain lashing against the glass.
Then Tony slowly reached out his trembling hand, picked up the phone, and unlocked the screen.
He dialed Marcus Sterling’s private number.
He put the phone to his ear. I leaned in close, tapping the speakerphone button with my fingernail.
The line rang twice.
*“What do you want, Tony? I’m busy,”* Marcus’s voice cut through the speaker, crisp, annoyed, completely devoid of empathy.
Tony swallowed hard, forcing his voice into a high, panicked tremble—which required almost no acting at all.
“Marcus... the girl. Dakota. She came to my house twenty minutes ago.”
A sharp pause on the other end of the line. *“She’s at your house?”*
“She was hysterical! She said two men tried to kill her. She brought the original file from her father’s precinct—the carbon copies, the parts logs, everything.” Tony wiped sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “She doesn't want to go to the police, Marcus. She knows the local cops are dirty. She wants two hundred thousand dollars to disappear to Florida. She said if we don't have the cash tonight, she’s mailing the file to the Philadelphia Inquirer tomorrow morning.”
A long, suffocating silence hung on the line.
I held my breath, watching Tony’s face. Dakota remained motionless by the pantry, her eyes fixed on the illuminated phone screen.
Finally, Marcus spoke. His voice was lower now, dark and calculating.
*“Where does she want to meet?”*
“The old maintenance shed at Whistler Creek Reservoir,” Tony whispered. “Off Mile Marker 42.”
Marcus let out a quiet, chilling chuckle through the receiver.
*“How poetic,”* Marcus said softly. *“The girl has a flair for drama. Tell her eleven o’clock. Tell her to be alone inside the shed with the file. If I see a single pair of headlights behind her car, the deal is off.”*
“Are you bringing the cash, Marcus?” Tony asked, his voice cracking.
*“Of course I’m bringing the cash, Tony,”* Marcus replied smoothly. *“Tell her she’ll never have to worry about money again.”*
The line went dead.
Tony let the phone drop onto the counter. He slumped over the sink, dry-heaving into the stainless steel basin.
Dakota looked at me, her face pale beneath the soot.
“He isn't bringing two hundred thousand dollars,” she whispered.
May you like
“I know,” I replied, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “He’s bringing a shovel and a gun.”
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