Chapter 4 - The Red Ledger and the Black Drive
My lungs burned as I sprinted down the dimly lit corridor of the west wing. Thunder rattled the antique picture frames lining the wood-paneled walls. The Vance mansion, once a symbol of untouchable Southern aristocracy, now felt like a haunted fortress built on extortion and human misery.
I reached Marcus’s private study and slammed the heavy oak door behind me, locking the deadbolt.
The room smelled of old paper, leather, and cedar. On the far wall hung the imposing, life-sized oil portrait of the Vance patriarch, Elias Vance. I hurried over, grabbed the gilded edge of the frame, and swung it open on its hidden brass hinges.
There, embedded in the reinforced brick wall, was a digital keypad safe.
My fingers trembled as I hovered over the keys. 09-14-92. My birthday.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Click.
The heavy steel door popped open with a hiss of pressurized air.
Inside lay a thick, leather-bound red ledger and a sleek, military-grade encrypted black hard drive, along with a thick stack of manila folders labeled: PROJECT BLUE RIDGE – 2018.
I pulled everything out, stuffing the drive and ledger into my leather satchel. My hands moved frantically as I flipped open the top folder.
What I saw inside made the air freeze in my lungs.
There were bank transfer slips showing $5,000,000 wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. There were private investigator reports with candid photos of a young woman and a baby. But attached to the back of the file was a yellowed North Carolina State Highway Patrol incident report dated October 14, 2018.
I scanned the official police document:
Location: Blue Ridge Parkway, Milepost 294.
Vehicle 1: 2017 Aston Martin DB11 (Registered to Vance Global Holdings).
Vehicle 2: 2014 Honda Civic.
Driver of Vehicle 1 at scene: UNIDENTIFIED MALE.
Blood Alcohol Content collected at scene: 0.22.
DNA Profile match on driver’s airbag: VANCE, JULIAN JR.
I gasped, dropping the paper onto the mahogany desk.
Julian Vance Jr.?
Marcus was Marcus Elias Vance. Julian Jr. was Marcus’s reckless, drug-addled cousin—Vivian’s nephew—who had allegedly died of an accidental drug overdose in Switzerland six months after the crash!
Marcus hadn't been driving that car.
Marcus wasn't the one who killed that woman and child on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Suddenly, a violent thud slammed against the study door.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Nia! Open this door right now!” Vivian’s voice screeched from the other side. “You have no idea what you’re interfering with! If you take those files out of this house, you won't live to see tomorrow morning!”
“Step away from the door, Vivian!” I yelled back, grabbing the papers and shoving them into my bag.
Through the heavy wood, I heard the muffled, aggressive voices of two men.
“Mrs. Vance, we have the bypass tools,” a rough, unfamiliar voice said. “Should we breach?”
“Break it down!” Vivian ordered mercilessly. “Get those drives! If she resists, do whatever is necessary to contain her!”
Vivian had summoned her private security team. The very men she used to clean up the family’s dirty secrets were now on the other side of that door.
CRACK!
The wood around the lock splintered under a heavy crowbar.
I looked around the study in a panic. The study was on the second floor, overlooking the private rose garden. There was no fire escape. But on the south wall, a set of French doors led out onto a narrow stone balcony wrapped in heavy wisteria vines.
CRACK! BANG!
The door hinges groaned under another massive blow.
I slung the satchel across my chest, zipped my jacket tight, and threw open the French doors. The freezing rain and howling wind blasted into the warm room, soaking my hair instantly.
I stepped onto the slick stone balustrade, looked down into the dark, mud-soaked garden twelve feet below, and heard the study door finally splinter into pieces behind me.
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“Stop her!” a man yelled.
Without thinking, I leaped into the darkness.
