Chapter 6 - A Spy Behind Enemy Lines
At 412 Whispering Pines Court, the darkness was absolute.
Wren sat on the edge of her twin bed in the smallest bedroom upstairs, illuminated only by the faint, blue glow of her prepaid smartphone screen.
Downstairs, the heavy front door slammed open, followed by the muffled, violent shouting of their parents.
Wren slipped off her sneakers, pulled her bedroom door open an inch, and pressed her ear to the crack.
*"How did she find out, Artie?!"* Mom’s voice was hysterical, vibrating through the floorboards. *"She had the court judgment! She knew the exact settlement figure! She knew about the reconveyance date!"*
*"Keep your damn voice down!"* Dad barked back. His voice didn't sound like the frail, injured man who groaned whenever he reached for a plate. It was loud, thunderous, and terrifyingly strong. *"The neighbors don't need to hear your screeching! Did you check the lockbox?"*
*"The lockbox is in your study, Artie! I haven't touched it!"*
*"Well, someone did! Someone took a picture of that deed!"* Heavy, uneven footsteps stomped down the hallway toward the kitchen. *"Where is Wren?"*
Wren’s heart leaped into her throat. She darted back to her desk, threw open an environmental science textbook, grabbed a yellow highlighter, and began frantically scribbling over a diagram of the carbon cycle.
The door to her bedroom flew open without a knock.
Dad stood in the doorway, holding an emergency camping lantern that cast long, grotesque shadows across the ceiling. His face was flushed crimson, his gray hair wild and uncombed.
"Wren," he demanded, his eyes darting around her tiny room. "Have you been talking to your sister?"
Wren forced her eyes to look wide, watery, and confused. She looked up from her textbook, blinking against the harsh beam of the lantern. "Cassidy? No... her phone went straight to voicemail when I called to ask why the Wi-Fi wasn't working. Dad, it’s freezing in here. When are the lights coming back on? I have a chemistry quiz tomorrow."
Dad stared at her, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. For five excruciating seconds, Wren didn't breathe.
"Your sister is having a mental breakdown," Dad said coldly, lowering the lantern slightly. "She’s spreading disgusting lies about this family because she doesn't want to pay her fair share of room and board. If she contacts you, you tell me immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Wren whispered obediently.
Dad grunted, turned on his heel, and pulled the door shut, leaving her in the dark once more.
Wren waited ten agonizing minutes until she heard the master bedroom door downstairs close and the low, muffled hum of their voices fade into a tense murmur.
Then, she moved.
She slipped into the hallway, moving with the silent, practiced grace of a teenager who had spent years learning which floorboards creaked and which remained quiet. She drifted past Cassidy’s old bedroom.
Inside, Brent and Chloe were arguing in vicious, hushed tones.
*"...told me this house would be ours, Brent!"* Chloe was hissing. *"You said your parents were leaving the title to you! Now you’re saying your sister might take them to court? If this place gets tied up in a lawsuit, I’m going back to my mother’s house!"*
*"Chloe, babe, shut up, Dad has two hundred grand in an offshore account, alright? We’re fine! Just let him handle Cassidy!"*
Wren’s breath hitched. *An offshore account?*
She slipped past their door and crept down the carpeted stairs into Dad’s home office.
The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. The faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds provided just enough light for Wren to navigate to the mahogany desk.
She knelt beside the filing cabinet, reaching into the gap between the metal frame and the wall. Her fingers brushed against the cold steel of the digital lockbox.
Earlier, she had failed to crack the four-digit PIN using birthdays.
*Think, Wren, think,* she told herself. *What does Dad care about more than anything in this world?*
Not Mom. Not Brent. Not Cassidy.
*His first car.*
Dad’s prized possession before his back injury was a 1969 Pontiac GTO he had sold to pay his legal fees during the early days of the warehouse lawsuit.
Wren placed her thumb on the rubber keypad.
*1 - 9 - 6 - 9.*
*Click.*
The electronic mechanism disengaged with a soft, heavy clunk.
Wren’s hands shook as she lifted the steel lid.
Inside sat a thick stack of paper envelopes, two blue Canadian passport booklets, a velvet pouch containing gold Krugerrand coins, and three black leather bank ledgers stamped with the logo of a private wealth management firm in the Cayman Islands.
Wren pulled her phone from her pocket, set the camera to silent mode, and began snapping rapid, high-resolution photographs of every single page, every account number, and every routing transit code.
On the final page of the third ledger, her eyes locked onto an entry dated just two weeks ago:
*Outgoing Wire Transfer: $45,000.00.*
*Recipient: Apex Elite Auto Imports.*
*Memo: 2024 Ford Raptor deposit for Brent Vance.*
Wren nearly dropped her phone.
While Cassidy was clipping coupons and wearing five-year-old winter boots, Dad had quietly wired forty-five thousand dollars of his hidden settlement hoard to buy Brent a luxury performance truck for his upcoming birthday.
And right beneath it was another ledger entry:
*Monthly Deposit - External Transfer: Cassidy Vance - $1,845.00.*
*Categorization: Discretionary Leisure / Travel Fund.*
They weren't even using Cassidy's money for bills. They were using it as an offshore vacation allowance.
May you like
Wren slammed the box shut, spun the digital dial to lock it, shoved it back into the hidden alcove, and slipped out of the office like a ghost in the night.
---
