Emma’s grandmother smiled and told her they had “run out” of Disney tickets, but she had no idea what I was about to cancel from my phone. / Chapter 106 / 111

Chapter 106 - Sullivan’s Shadow

"We’re going the other way," I told Emma, shifting the utility truck back into drive and cutting the wheel hard across the gravel median.

Tires squealed as I crossed into the eastbound lanes, heading down from the foothills toward the coast. The morning sun was climbing higher now, blinding through the streaks of rain on the glass, but the road felt different under the tires. We were no longer running to hide. We were moving to sever the final thread.

"What about the bad girl on the phone?" Emma asked, staring out at the blurred pine trees whipping past. "Won't she hurt the woman in the picture?"

"Chloe doesn't have Clara," I explained, piecing the puzzle together as the miles ticked by. "If she had her under guard in Roanoke, she wouldn't need to spoof a satellite signal from South Carolina. That photo was taken inside the Sullivan's Island estate. Look at the masonry on the porch steps."

I tapped the glossy print on the console. The distinctive coquina stone and wrought-iron palmetto railings were identical to the terrace where Beatrice held her annual summer galas—the very terrace Emma and I had been barred from entering while my siblings drank vintage champagne.

Clara wasn't in some remote Appalachian prison. Beatrice had kept her right under everyone's noses, hidden away in the caretaker’s cottage at the rear of the oceanfront property, likely guarded by the private security firm that had been on the family payroll for two decades.

"We need help," I muttered, looking at the fuel gauge dropping toward a quarter tank. "I can't hit a fortified estate with just a utility truck and a stolen sidearm."

I pulled into a truck stop outside Columbia, keeping the vehicle parked in the blind spot of an oversized fuel tanker. Stepping into the convenience store, I purchased two disposable prepaid phones and three heavy rolls of industrial zip-ties.

Sitting in the front seat, I dialed an unlisted number I had pulled from Arthur's decrypted ledger—the personal cell of Detective Miller, the state investigator who had been trying to take down the Vance family for twelve years before Arthur's legal team had him reassigned to desk duty.

The phone rang four times before a gravelly voice answered.

"Speak."

"Miller," I said. "This is David Vance. Don't trace the cell; you won't have time. If you want Arthur Vance's unredacted digital ledger, the physical proof of Beatrice's money laundering, and the location of a kidnapping victim held on federal property, be outside the Silver Gate estate on Sullivan's Island in four hours."

A sharp intake of breath came over the line. "David? The state police have an all-points bulletin on you. They claim you set fire to the harbor depot."

"Arthur's men set the fire," I said cold. "Chloe Vance is at the estate right now preparing to scrub the master servers and leave the country. You show up with federal marshals, or you can watch her fly out on a private jet to a non-extradition country. It’s your choice."