“Dad, please come get me—he hit me again.” Then my daughter screamed, something crashed, and the call ended. Twenty minutes later, I found her on a white Persian rug with a swollen cheek and torn blouse while her mother-in-law smirked beside her. I covered my daughter with my coat, photographed the room, and made one call. They saw only an old man with a battered pickup—until the lead detective entered and addressed me as “Chief.”

I pressed my foot down harder on the accelerator pedal.

The old engine roared as I sped down the wet highway.

I asked Miller to send me the exact coordinates of the overpass.

He told me to go to the hospital and let the active police handle the vehicle.

I reminded him that it was my daughter lying in that ambulance.

Miller sighed and texted me the location address.

I bypassed the hospital exit and drove straight toward the county line.

The rain was coming down in heavy, blinding sheets.

I saw the flashing blue lights reflecting off the concrete pillars of the overpass.

I parked my truck behind the police barricade and stepped out into the storm.

Miller was already there, shining a heavy flashlight through the driver's side window.

I flashed my old silver badge at the perimeter officer and ducked under the yellow tape.

I walked up behind Miller and looked into the abandoned car.

The amount of blood on the leather steering wheel was staggering.

Miller turned to me and shook his head.

He said nobody could lose that much blood and simply walk away in the rain.

I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my coat pocket and snapped them on.

I opened the driver's door and leaned inside the vehicle.

The metallic smell of blood mixed heavily with expensive cologne.

I looked down at the floor mats and noticed muddy footprints.

The footprints did not lead out of the driver's door.

They led backward, over the center console, toward the rear seats.

I told Miller to pop the trunk.

He pushed the release button on the dashboard.

The trunk lid sprang open with a loud metallic click.

We both walked to the rear of the car and looked inside.

There was a dead body stuffed into the small cargo space.

It was not Michael.

It was a man in his fifties wearing a cheap gray suit.

Miller cursed loudly and grabbed his radio to call for a homicide team.

I reached into the dead man's suit pocket and pulled out a leather wallet.

I opened the wallet and found a private investigator's license.

The name on the card was Thomas Vance.

He was my younger brother.

I stared at the lifeless face of the brother I had not spoken to in three years.

He had been investigating Michael without telling me.

“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

I looked closer at my brother's cold hand.

His fingers were tightly clutching a small, silver flash drive.

Chapter 3 - The Blood in the Trunk