Chapter 52 - The Coldest Exchange
The Atlantic breeze felt suddenly like liquid ice against my throat. Julian Vance’s breath was warm and smelled faintly of peppermint, a sickeningly polite contrast to the threat vibrating in his tone. On the small screen, Patrice sat motionless, her jaw set in that stubborn, furious line I had known since we were girls sharing secondhand textbooks. The lawyer standing over her—a man named Henderson whom Tori had praised as an aggressive miracle worker—shifted his weight, the barrel of his sidearm catching the pale New England overcast through the car window.
"You have five seconds to hand over Arthur’s binder, Myrna," Julian murmured, his thumb hovering over the screen. "And then you will dictate the GPS coordinates of the New Hampshire cache into this receiver. If you hesitate, Henderson takes Patrice on a one-way drive into the White Mountains."
My fingers tightened against the leather edge of the binder. Forty years of monitoring unruly teenagers had taught me one fundamental truth about bullies: the moment you display panic, you surrender the initiative. Julian expected a grandmother to weep, to tremble, to thrust the papers into his chest in a desperate bid for mercy.
Instead, I turned a page.
"Do you know what makes a retired librarian dangerous, Julian?" I asked, my voice pitched low enough that the street performer ten yards away continued his cheerful fado melody undisturbed.
Julian’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation cutting through his smug certainty. "Don't play games with me."
"We are keepers of records," I said, pointing a steady finger at the manifest photocopy open on my lap. "And we understand duplicates. Do you truly believe I carried Arthur’s sole original documents across the ocean in a carry-on bag? This binder is a certified court copy, prepared by the maritime registry in Ponta Delgada yesterday morning. The actual bonds and Arthur’s personal affidavits are currently in an escrow lockbox registered with the federal district clerk in Concord."
Julian smiled thinly, though his grip on the tablet tightened. "Bluffing is beneath you. Henderson will pull that trigger."
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"Tell him to do it," I said, locking my eyes onto his. "Tell him to execute a retired municipal clerk in broad daylight while her phone is pinging the cellular tower outside the county sheriff's department. Because if Patrice doesn't check in with her sister in ten minutes, the clerk opens that lockbox. And your family's maritime fraud becomes a murder conspiracy."
For two agonizing seconds, the Lisbon terrace seemed to hold its breath. The brass notes of the guitar drifted over the balustrade, mingling with the cries of gulls wheeling over the blue expanse of the Tagus. Julian did not lower the tablet, but his jaw clenched until a tendon bulged beneath his smooth skin.
