Chapter 8 - THE LEDGER
Darkness swallowed the room.
Someone screamed outside.
Morales drew his weapon.
“Stay down!”
A crash came from the kitchen.
Then another.
Patricia grabbed Claire.
I pulled my daughter behind a wall.
Footsteps moved through the house.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Someone was searching.
Morales whispered:
“Don't move.”
A flashlight appeared in the hallway.
Then disappeared.
The footsteps stopped.
A door slammed.
Morales moved toward it.
We heard tires outside.
Then silence.
He ran to the window.
“They're gone.”
Patricia was shaking.
“They came for the ledger.”
“What ledger?” I asked again.
She looked at me.
“There's only one copy.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the basement.
We followed her downstairs.
Behind an old water heater was a metal box.
Patricia opened it.
Inside was a black notebook.
Thick.
Handwritten.
Names filled every page.
Dates.
Addresses.
Bank accounts.
Payments.
And beside some names—
A red X.
I turned the page.
OLIVIA CARTER.
Red X.
Next—
CLAIRE BENNETT.
No X.
Yet.
I felt sick.
“Why is Claire not crossed out?”
Olivia answered.
“Because she's still alive.”
Morales photographed every page.
Then we heard a car outside.
Patricia looked terrified.
“They're back.”
“No,” Olivia said.
She looked toward the window.
“That isn't Ethan.”
“Who?”
She whispered:
“Martin.”
The front door opened.
Martin walked inside.
He looked exhausted.
His tie was gone.
His shirt was soaked with sweat.
“I came to warn you.”
Morales raised his weapon.
“Stop.”
Martin stopped.
“They know about the ledger.”
“We know.”
“They're coming tonight.”
“Who?”
Martin looked at Claire.
“The people who hired Ethan.”
“Names.”
Martin shook his head.
“You don't understand. Ethan isn't their only operative.”
“Then who else?”
Martin hesitated.
“Someone in your family.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“What?”
Martin looked at me.
“Your brother.”
I froze.
“My brother died twelve years ago.”
Martin's face changed.
“No.”
“What?”
“He didn't.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“He disappeared.”
“I buried him.”
Martin shook his head.
“The body was never properly identified.”
My mind raced.
Twelve years.
A funeral.
A closed coffin.
My mother refusing to let anyone open it.
I had always assumed grief had made her behave strangely.
Now I wasn't sure.
Martin reached into his pocket.
He pulled out an old photograph.
Two men stood beside a car.
One was Martin.
The other—
Looked exactly like my brother.
On the back was a date.
Three months before his supposed death.
And underneath:
May you like
PROJECT BENNETT — ACTIVE.
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