Chapter 8 - THE TRUNK
I stumbled out of Miller’s car, my legs feeling like lead.
“Emily, stay where you are,” Miller barked, standing up from the useless, blank papers.
But I didn't listen. I walked to the back of my sedan. My hands shook so violently I could barely press the trunk release.
The latch popped. The trunk slowly swung upward.
Inside, resting perfectly on the spare tire cover, was the heavy iron fireplace poker. The exact weapon Daniel had accused my mother of using. The one I swore was locked in an evidence facility.
Next to it was a blood-stained towel.
And beneath the poker was a manila envelope.
Miller was suddenly beside me. He looked at the poker, then at me, his hand instinctively resting on his weapon. “Emily. Step away from the vehicle.”
“He planted this,” I whispered, tears of absolute rage blurring my vision. “He paid off the storage facility. He got it back.”
Miller used his pen to flip open the manila envelope. Inside were high-resolution photographs. Pictures of me, meeting with Clara Vance at the marina this morning.
“You met with a dead woman,” Miller said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hush. “A woman whose husband was just murdered.”
Daniel’s voice called out from the hood of the Range Rover. “Detective! Ask my wife why she paid Richard Vance’s widow half a million dollars from her mother’s account this morning!”
I gasped. I pulled out my phone and checked Mom’s bank app. The balance was zero. A wire transfer had gone through an hour ago to an untraceable Cayman account.
Daniel hadn’t just evaded my trap. He had used it as a distraction while he completed the ultimate frame-up. He made it look like Mom and I had hired Clara to tamper with evidence, and that we were holding the assault weapon the whole time.
“Emily Carter,” Miller said heavily, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Turn around.”
“No,” I said, backing up. “Miller, look at the timeline. He’s setting me up!”
“Turn around,” he repeated.
As Miller reached for my arm, a loud, sharp whistle cut through the damp air.
Everyone froze.
At the edge of the parking lot, stepping out from behind a concrete pillar, was Margaret. My mother.
But she wasn't alone.
Standing beside her was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored suit.
Daniel’s smug smile vanished instantly. His face drained of all color, leaving him looking like a corpse.
“Hello, Daniel,” the man said, his voice carrying across the asphalt.
It was Richard Vance.
Alive.
“You missed,” Richard said, tapping the side of his head, where a faint surgical scar peeked through his hairline. “The crash didn't kill me. The EMTs pulled me out before the car burned. And Margaret here found me hiding in the hospital's private wing.”
Miller lowered his handcuffs. He looked from the “dead” lawyer to my husband.
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“I have the real ledger, Detective,” Richard said, lifting a small black flash drive. “And I have the recording of Daniel Carter offering me two million dollars to rig his wife’s car next.”
Daniel let out a feral, panicked scream. He shoved the arresting officer, twisting his body violently, and sprinted toward the busy intersection.
