Chapter 5 - THE WHISPERS OF THE PAST
The morning sun broke over the Pacific, casting a blinding glare across the glass-and-steel architecture of the Robles estate. Inside his private study, Preston wasn't looking at the ocean. He was staring at a rugged, encrypted laptop screen displaying a secure video feed.
On the other end of the line was Mateo Garza, a former federal intelligence operative turned elite private investigator whom Preston had covertly hired at 3:00 AM.
"You're asking me to look into a closed case from three years ago, boss," Mateo’s gravelly voice came through the desktop speakers. "The state police file is airtight. Driver error mixed with mechanical defect."
"The state police file was processed under a municipal jurisdiction where our corporate holding company happens to be the largest taxpayer," Preston countered sharply, leaning close to the mic. "I want you to look past the official report, Mateo. Look at the maintenance logs of the vehicle during the forty-eight hours before the crash. Look at the hospital admission records from the night of the accident—specifically who authorized my transfer to the private neuro-facility."
"You think someone altered your treatment?" Mateo asked, his tone sharpening with professional curiosity.
"I think my legs weren't just broken by a crash," Preston said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I think someone made sure they stayed dead."
A pause stretched across the line before Mateo spoke again. "There's something else, Mr. Preston. About that boy—Leo."
Preston’s posture instantly stiffened. "You found him?"
"Not yet. But we pulled traffic camera footage from the highway exit near the resort. He didn't run into the woods like your guards thought. He got into a vintage black pickup truck driven by an older man with a distinct facial scar. And according to local DMV records, that truck matches a registration tied to an abandoned property about forty miles inland, near the old Silver Creek mining district."
"Silver Creek?" Preston frowned, a sudden, cold memory scraping against the back of his mind. "That's near the site of our old industrial subsidiary—the one we liquidated five years ago right before the merger."
"Coincidence?" Mateo asked dryly.
"In my world, there are no coincidences," Preston said, slamming his palm flat against the desk. "Get your gear, Mateo. We're taking a drive."
Two hours later, a sleek black Maybach SUV—driven by Mateo, with Preston seated in the custom rear captain’s chair fitted with mobile lift controls—navigated the increasingly desolate dirt roads winding away from the glittering coast and deep into the sun-scorched foothills of Silver Creek.
The landscape shifted dramatically. The pristine lawns and palm trees of Malibu dissolved into dry chaparral, rusted barbed-wire fences, and decaying industrial relics from an era of unchecked corporate expansion.
Finally, the SUV slowed to a halt beside a weather-beaten wooden sign half-swallowed by overgrown brush: SILVER CREEK RECLAMATION SITE - PROPERTY OF ROBLES HOLDINGS.
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Except the property wasn't abandoned.
Parked beside a rusted corrugated-metal warehouse was the exact vintage black pickup truck Mateo had flagged on the traffic cameras. And sitting on an upturned wooden crate near the open sliding door was Leo, whittling a small piece of pine wood with a pocketknife as if he had been expecting them all along.
