Chapter 7 - The Boathouse
The Brooklyn Marina was desolate at 3:00 AM. The rain had picked up, lashing against the windshield as Nathaniel parked the SUV near the end of a long, dark pier. The sound of water slapping against the wooden pylons was the only noise in the empty lot. “The vault isn't at a bank,” Nathaniel said smoothly, turning off the engine. “My father didn't trust banks with his private funds. The box is in the old family boathouse at the end of Pier 4.” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll shoot the server first. Then your mother.” “Take the key and see for yourself,” Nathaniel said. Victoria forced us out of the car into the freezing rain. She kept the gun trained on my back, using me as a human shield as we walked down the creaking wooden pier. Eleanor leaned heavily on Nathaniel, shivering in the damp cold. At the end of the pier stood a weathered, grey boathouse. Nathaniel unlocked the heavy padlock with a code and pushed the sliding door open. Inside, it smelled of motor oil, old wood, and salt. A single, bare bulb flickered on when Nathaniel hit the switch. Sitting in the center of the room was a massive, vintage mahogany desk. “The drawer on the right,” Nathaniel instructed. Victoria pushed me forward. She handed me the brass key. “Open it. Slowly.” My hands were trembling so badly I could barely grip the metal. I slid the key into the brass lock on the desk drawer. It turned with a heavy click. I pulled the drawer open. Inside, there were no bearer bonds. There was no money. There was only a thick, leather-bound journal and a heavy, rusted iron boat cleat. Victoria shoved me aside, staring into the empty drawer. Her face contorted in rage. “Where is it?! Where is the money?!” “There never was any money,” Eleanor said quietly from the doorway. She stood taller now, the fear leaving her eyes, replaced by a fierce, maternal steel. Victoria spun around, raising the gun. “My husband didn't leave bearer bonds,” Eleanor continued, her voice echoing in the boathouse. “He left a confession. That journal details every bribe, every payoff, and exactly how he faked his own death five years ago.” Victoria froze. “What?” “He isn't dead, Victoria,” Nathaniel said softly. “He faked the boating accident to escape federal indictment. And you didn't orchestrate our meeting at the gala. He did. He sent you to me, hoping you’d infiltrate the company so he could drain it from the outside.” The reversal hit Victoria so hard she physically staggered. The man she thought she was avenging—the father who had supposedly abandoned her—had actually been using her as a pawn her entire life. “No,” Victoria whispered, her hands shaking. “No, that’s a lie.” “Read the journal,” Nathaniel said. Victoria looked down at the desk. In that single second of distraction, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the heavy, rusted iron boat cleat from the drawer and swung it with all my might, smashing it directly into Victoria’s wrist.
