Chapter 3 - Cold Metal and Warm Blood
Within twenty minutes, my brother-in-law, David—a man I trusted with my life—arrived at the house to watch Emma and Leo. He didn't ask questions; one look at my pale face and the tears drying on Emma’s cheeks told him everything he needed to know. He sat on the rug with the kids, locked the deadbolts behind me, and held a baseball bat across his lap.
I drove toward the old quarry through the heavy fog cutting across Route 9.
The scene was bathed in a blinding array of red and blue emergency lights. Two fire engines, three sheriff’s cruisers, and a heavy-duty tow truck were parked on the muddy embankment overlooking the black, stagnant water of the abandoned stone pit.
I stepped out of my truck, the freezing mist clinging to my jacket.
Deputy Miller saw me coming and rushed over, holding up a hand to stop me at the yellow police tape. “Mark, stay back. The divers are still down there searching the perimeter.”
I ignored the tape, ducking under it and walking straight to the rear of the tow truck.
Sitting on the wet asphalt was Sarah’s car. Water streamed from the open windows, pooling around the tires in muddy rivulets. The front windshield was cracked in a spiderweb pattern on the passenger side, but what caught my eye was the driver’s door.
A thick, heavy-duty steel winch cable was wrapped three times around the door handle and hooked tightly to a steel fence post beside the water’s edge.
Anyone sitting in that driver’s seat would have been trapped inside as the vehicle sank.
“Mark,” Miller said, coming up behind me. “The key was still in the ignition. The engine was in drive. It looks like somebody pushed it over the edge, but the cable caught on the fence post, keeping it from sinking to the bottom. That’s the only reason the road patrol spotted the taillights floating under the surface.”
I pulled out a small tactical flashlight from my pocket, stepped past the warning signs, and shined the beam directly into the driver’s side window.
The leather seat was soaked, covered in murky river silt. But there was no purse. No shoes. No sign of a struggle.
And then my light hit the center console.
Scratched into the soft plastic trim beside the gear shift was a small, crudely carved symbol: a circle intersected by two parallel lines.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
That wasn't a random mark. It was the old property marker used by Vance Contracting—the commercial development firm owned by my former partner, Julian Vance.
Six years ago, Julian and I had gone to court over a failed arson investigation involving a warehouse fire. Julian had been accused of burning his own property for a three-million-dollar insurance payout. I was the lead investigator who signed the report that sent his brother to federal prison.
Julian had sworn he would destroy everything I loved before he ever set foot in a courtroom again.
“Miller,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Where is Julian Vance’s current residence?”
Miller frowned, stepping back. “Vance? Mark, he’s been out of state for three years. He operates out of Chicago now. Why the hell are you asking about Vance?”
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I reached into my pocket, pulled out the hidden burner phone I had taken from the bathroom towel stack, and handed it to Miller.
“Because my wife didn't fall into the quarry by accident,” I whispered, staring down at the water. “She was coerced. And if she’s not in that car... she’s already in his hands.”
