Vance’s face contorted in shock. He stared at the shattered window, then at the man in the green jacket who was now being handcuffed by arriving city police.
“That’s my car,” Vance said, his voice loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear. “It was stolen from the valet drop-off over an hour ago. I was just coming down to report it. Who in God's name is that child?”
I froze. My mind, trained by two decades of interrogating liars, immediately snagged on the details.
Vance’s Italian wool suit was completely dry in the 104-degree heat, meaning he hadn’t been running or searching for his car. But his tie was slightly loosened, and I could clearly see a distinct, angry red burn mark across the inside of his right wrist—the exact size and shape of a superheated metal seatbelt buckle.
As the patrol officers hauled the man in the green jacket toward a cruiser, the man locked eyes with me. He didn’t look crazy anymore. He looked dead serious.
“Check the blue bag under the seat,” the man mouthed silently through the glass of the cruiser. “He left him.”
I watched the police drive away. Thorne immediately began barking orders to my guards to bring in tarps and cover the vehicle, claiming they needed to protect Vance’s property.
I didn't argue. I just nodded, turned around, and walked straight back to my security booth.
I locked the door behind me. I booted up the plaza’s central gate logs, bypassing Thorne’s administrative restrictions using a backdoor I’d built months ago. I typed in the license plate of Vance’s SUV.
The screen blinked, loading the data.
Vance claimed the car was stolen over an hour ago. But the digital log told a completely different story. Exactly forty-two minutes ago, when the afternoon sun was at its absolute peak, that specific SUV had entered the VIP gate. And the gate hadn’t been opened by a thief.
It had been opened by Richard Vance’s personal, encrypted RFID badge.
He hadn't been robbed. He had parked the car himself, leaving the child in the sun to die.
CHAPTER 2
The harsh glow of the security monitor washed over my face, the digital numbers glaring back at me. 1:18 PM. Entry: VANCE, RICHARD. Lane 2.
A cold sweat broke out down my spine, chilling me despite the suffocating heat lingering inside the booth. The implications were staggering. Richard Vance was a pillar of the community, a man who threw million-dollar charity galas. If he had intentionally parked that car in the direct sun and walked away, he wasn't just a murderer—he was a man who believed his money made him entirely immune to consequences.
Before I could process my next move, the heavy metal door of my security booth rattled and shoved open.
Greg Thorne stepped inside, filling the small space. He shut the door behind him, the latch clicking with an ominous finality. He didn't look at me right away. Instead, his eyes darted to the computer screen. I had minimized the gate log a second before he entered, leaving only a generic camera feed visible.