Chapter 4 - SOMEONE WAS STILL CLEANING UPBy evening, I had police protection outside my hospital room.
That sounds dramatic until someone leaves a note with your name inside a bloodstained truck.
Then it feels insufficient.
Detective Ruiz refused to assume Hollis wrote the message.
The handwriting was being examined.
The blood was rushed to the lab.
Every camera within twenty miles of the quarry was pulled.
I should have been frightened.
Instead, I was furious.
For nineteen years, fear had benefited my family.
I was tired of contributing.
My attorney, Daniel Mercer, arrived shortly after five.
Daniel was fifty-seven and had the permanent expression of a man disappointed by everyone’s paperwork.
He put a folder on my table.
“You look terrible.”
“You should see Marcus.”
“I hope he looks worse.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Then the justice system has already failed.”
I laughed, and pain shot through my shoulder.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“That might be the first time a client has said that.”
His humor disappeared when I told him about Hollis.
“I heard.”
“What happens to my parents?”
“Your stepbrother is facing serious felony charges for attacking you. Your parents could face charges depending on evidence showing complicity, obstruction, false reporting, or failure to assist. The older case is far bigger.”
“Can Marcus still be charged for Nicole? He was fifteen.”
“Juvenile status complicates things, but homicide-related conduct, evidence tampering, conspiracy, and later criminal acts create many questions. Prosecutors decide charges, not me.”
“What about my father bribing Hollis?”
“If investigators prove that, Alan has bigger problems than real estate sales.”
Daniel opened the folder.
“There’s another matter.”
I groaned.
“You lawyers need better transitional phrases.”
“This one concerns the second letter.”
The insurance investigator.
Daniel spread six claim files across my bed.
Each involved property owned by companies connected to my father.
Fires.
Water damage.
Burglary.
Storm damage.
At least $2.8 million in payouts.
“You think they were fraudulent?”
“I think the state thinks they may be.”
“Why?”
Daniel tapped one file.
“This warehouse fire occurred nine years ago. Cause officially undetermined.”
Another.
“This vacation property was burglarized while supposedly empty.”
Another.
“This commercial building suffered catastrophic flooding from a burst pipe.”
He looked at me.
“All three claims were adjusted by the same man.”
“Who?”
“Peter Vale.”
The name meant nothing.
Daniel showed me a photograph.
I stopped breathing for a second.
I knew that face.
He had attended Christmas dinners at our house when I was a teenager.
My father introduced him as Uncle Pete even though we weren’t related.
“He was my dad’s friend.”
“He was also a senior claims adjuster until his resignation four years ago.”
“Why did he resign?”
“He was accused of taking kickbacks.”
“Convicted?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The primary witness recanted.”
Of course.
Another person who suddenly forgot.
“Where is Peter now?”
“Runs a consulting company in Arizona.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unfamiliar number.
YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT YOUR MOUTH SHUT.
Daniel read it over my shoulder.
“Don’t delete that.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Another message appeared.
ASK YOUR HERO LAWYER WHAT HAPPENED TO PEOPLE WHO CROSSED YOUR FATHER.
Daniel’s face went still.
“You know anything about that?”
“No.”
I showed the phone to the officer outside.
Within minutes, the number was traced to a prepaid device.
Then a third message arrived.
YOUR MOTHER STILL LOVES YOU. COME HOME BEFORE THIS GETS WORSE.
That one affected me.
Not because I believed it.
Because the sender knew exactly which wound to press.
I handed the phone over.
Daniel watched me carefully.
“You can’t go back to that house.”
“I’m aware.”
“I mean ever, Lily.”
I looked at him.
“The evidence search isn’t finished.”
“That isn’t your job.”
“It became my job when everyone else decided twelve-year-old me should carry their secret.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“It became law enforcement’s job when you turned over the evidence. Your job is to survive long enough to testify.”
I hated when lawyers made sense.
A nurse entered and announced I was staying another night.
Twenty minutes later, Detective Ruiz returned.
She carried a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
“What is that?”
“Recovered from Hollis’s truck.”
The image showed a much younger Frank Hollis standing beside my father at a lake.
Between them stood Peter Vale.
All three men smiled.
On the back someone had written:
THE THREE AMIGOS — 2008.
One year after Nicole died.
Ruiz placed another image beside it.
A bank deposit.
$20,000.
“To Hollis?”
“Yes.”
“From Dad?”
“From a company controlled by Peter Vale.”
My skin prickled.
“So Peter paid Hollis.”
“At least once.”
“And Dad paid Peter?”
“We’re examining that.”
Rebecca returned around seven with coffee she had bullied a nurse into allowing me.
She saw the photographs.
Her face darkened.
“Frank Hollis told me there was no evidence Nicole had been with anyone.”
Ruiz looked at her.
“When?”
“The morning after she died.”
“You spoke directly?”
“For almost an hour.”
“What else did he say?”
Rebecca thought.
“He told me Marcus Carter had been interviewed and cleared.”
I frowned.
“He was never interviewed.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there all weekend.”
Ruiz immediately began taking notes.
Rebecca continued.
“Hollis said multiple witnesses confirmed Marcus was home.”
“That was a lie,” I said.
Ruiz looked up.
“Maybe not just a lie.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the report names witnesses who never gave statements, that’s fabricated evidence.”
Her phone vibrated.
She read the message.
“Lab results.”
Nobody spoke.
“The blood in Hollis’s truck is Hollis’s.”
Rebecca shut her eyes.
“Is he dead?”
“We don’t know.”
“Was there enough blood—”
“Not necessarily.”
I watched Ruiz.
“But you think he was attacked.”
“Yes.”
My father was still free at that point.
Police had questioned and released him pending further investigation.
My mother too.
Suddenly that seemed insane.
“Where are my parents?”
Ruiz called another officer.
Her expression hardened.
“What?”
She listened.
Then turned toward me.
“Your father’s vehicle left the house forty-five minutes ago.”
“Where did he go?”
“We don’t know.”
“Mom?”
“At the residence.”
I knew my father.
He didn’t run when he could negotiate.
He didn’t panic unless money or reputation was threatened.
If he left while police were investigating Hollis, he had a destination.
Then I remembered something.
“A cabin.”
Ruiz froze.
“What?”
“My father has access to a cabin near Bailey.”
“Hollis owns a cabin near Bailey.”
“I know.”
The room went quiet.
“How do you know that?” Ruiz asked.
“I didn’t know it was Hollis’s. Dad took Marcus there when I was a teenager. Hunting weekends. He called it Frank’s place.”
Ruiz was already dialing.
Within thirty seconds, deputies were being redirected.
Then Rebecca said something that made every person in the room look at her.
“Nicole went to a cabin that summer.”
“What?” I asked.
“She never told me whose. She said Marcus took her somewhere in the mountains with his family.”
Ruiz stared.
“Are you saying Nicole and Marcus were dating?”
Rebecca’s eyes filled.
“I thought you knew.”
I felt the pieces shift.
Nicole hadn’t simply been at the same party as Marcus.
She knew him.
Maybe trusted him.
Maybe feared him.
The official story had never mentioned that.
My father had erased not merely a driver.
He had erased a relationship.
Forty minutes later, Ruiz received another call.
Police had reached Hollis’s cabin.
The front door was open.
My father’s SUV was parked outside.
There was blood on the porch.
They found Alan Carter inside.
Alive.
Alone.
He had a loaded handgun in his hand.
Frank Hollis was nowhere in the cabin.
But investigators found something else.
A hidden room beneath the basement stairs.
Inside were boxes.
Photographs.
Old police files.
Cash.
And an audio recorder.
On one tape, dated October 15, 2007, three men were talking.
My father.
Frank Hollis.
Peter Vale.
May you like
And according to Ruiz, the first clearly audible sentence was my father saying:
“My son was driving. Tell me what it costs to make the girl responsible.”
Related Stories
