Chapter 4: The House on the Hill
"Get down there," Raymond muttered into his shoulder radio, his eyes locked on mine. "Tell them it’s a civil matter. The family is moving property. No police intervention required."
"Negative, Detective Vance," Marcus cut in, holding his desk phone to his ear. "I’m already on the line with Assistant US Attorney Miller. Federal agents are already en route to the East Nashville property to secure the scene under an emergency asset-preservation order. If your officers interfere, they will be facing federal conspiracy charges."
Raymond’s face drained of color. He looked back at Tara, his protective demeanor fracturing into pure self-preservation. "Tara... what did you do? You told me you just needed the autopsy blocked so you could settle the insurance quickly. You didn't tell me there was a recording."
"Raymond, please!" Tara panicked, grabbing his leather jacket. "We have to get to the house! The safe—Brett is trying to empty the safe!"
"The safe is inside my house, Tara," I said, my voice cold as ice. "The house I built. The house where my son spent his last nights wondering why his chest was burning."
Without waiting for the police or the lawyers, I turned on my heel and walked out of the office. I could hear Marcus calling after me, telling me to wait for the federal agents, but fifty years of patience had evaporated from my soul. I got back into my car alone, the navy blue carry-on bag sitting heavily on the passenger seat. Inside that bag was twenty thousand dollars—the defense fund my son had provided for me. I intended to use every resource to destroy the people who took him from me.
The drive back to East Nashville felt like a descent into war. The quiet, historic neighborhood with its craftsman-style homes and ancient oak trees looked different now. It looked like a crime scene.
When I pulled up to my property, a massive yellow moving box truck was backed into the driveway, its ramp lowered onto my lawn. Brett was carrying a flat-screen television down the ramp, his face covered in sweat, his expensive designer sneakers caked in mud. Several boxes of David’s personal journals and company records were already stacked in the back of the open truck.
I slammed the car door shut and walked straight up the driveway.
"Drop it, Brett," I said.
Brett stopped at the bottom of the ramp, looking at me with a mixture of surprise and immediate arrogance. He set the television down on the concrete. "Hey, old man. Mom told me you went to the airport. Look, we’re just getting a head start on moving David’s things out. No need to get worked up."
"You’re moving his things into a garbage truck, you little thief," I said, my eyes tracking to the open front door of my house. Inside, I could see the drawers pulled out, the family photos thrown onto the floor, the floorboards pried up near the closet where David kept his childhood mementos. They hadn't just been packing; they had been hunting for the very bag I had just retrieved from the airport.
"Listen to me, Arthur," Brett said, stepping closer, his chest puffed out in a pathetic display of youthful intimidation. "David is dead. My mom owns everything now. You’re just a tenant in this house if she says so. So why don't you go sit on the porch and let the adults handle the heavy lifting?"
"The adults are on their way, Brett," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the voice recorder. I pressed play, turning the volume up to its absolute maximum.
...We increase the dosage tonight... Just enough to make it look like his heart finally gave out... Tara’s recorded voice echoed down the quiet street, bouncing off the neighbor’s porch.
Brett froze. The arrogance drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, sickening panic. He looked behind me, expecting to see his mother or the police, but the street was temporarily empty.
"Where did you get that?" Brett whispered, his hands beginning to shake.
May you like
"Your stepfather was smarter than both of you combined," I said. "He knew you were killing him. And he made sure I would be the one to hang the noose around your necks."
With a low snarl, Brett lunged at me, his hands reaching for the recorder. But thirty-one years of watching desperate men in courtrooms had taught me one thing: never let an adversary get within arm's reach without a plan.
