My breath hitched.
Ten years ago, when Emily was a teenager and I was running my garage out of a small rented shop in town, I didn't want expensive tools delivered to a porch where they could be stolen. I had rented a large Post Office box in the next town over. Box 418. I hadn't checked that box or paid the fee in over five years, but because I had prepaid a decade in advance during a good year, the box was still active.
0-4-1-8. The numbers on the note. Box 418.
The brass key wasn't for a bank. It was the key to my own PO Box.
Emily hadn't sent Lily to me just to drop off a key. She had mailed the actual evidence directly to my name, knowing it was the one place Cole couldn't legally access without breaking federal laws or raising massive red flags. She had used my name to hide the weapon that could destroy Cole's entire operation.
"She sent it to me," I whispered, the crushing weight of my daughter's desperation falling heavily on my shoulders.
I looked at the digital clock on the cheap motel nightstand. 5:15 AM.
The post office in the neighboring county opened at 6:00 AM.
We had to get that ledger before Cole realized where Emily had sent it. If we took the ledger to the FBI, we could end this. We could put Cole away forever and keep Lily safe.
"Get your shoes on, Lily," I said, grabbing the brass key and shoving it deep into my jeans pocket. "We're going for a ride."
We left the motel before the sun breached the horizon. I drove cautiously, taking backroads, keeping a desperate eye on the rearview mirror. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle, wrapping the pine trees in a thick, grey fog.
We reached the small rural post office at 6:15 AM. The small brick building was deserted, sitting alone on a quiet intersection.
I parked the truck in the alley across the street. "Stay right here," I told Lily, locking the doors from the inside. "Keep your head down. I'll be right back."
I crossed the street, the cold morning air biting my face, and pushed open the heavy glass door of the post office. The lobby was silent, filled with walls of small, gleaming brass doors.
I walked down the aisle, tracing the numbers with my finger.
415. 416. 417. 418.
I stopped. I pulled the brass key from my pocket. My hand was shaking slightly as I slid it into the lock. It fit perfectly. I turned it with a sharp click and swung the small metal door open.
Inside, wedged tightly into the narrow space, was a thick, brown padded envelope.
I reached in and pulled it out. It was heavy. It had my name written on it in Emily's unmistakable, messy handwriting. The postmark was dated over two weeks ago.
A wave of relief washed over me. I had it. The evidence. We were going to be okay.
I turned around to head back to the truck.
As I turned, a massive, shadow-drenched figure stepped in front of the lobby's exterior glass doors.
A heavy, leather-gloved hand slammed violently against the glass pane, shattering the quiet morning.
Standing on the sidewalk, staring at me through the glass with eyes as dead and cold as polished stone, was Cole. And flanking him on the sidewalk were four massive men, heavily armed, blocking the only exit from the building.
I was trapped.
CHAPTER 3
The heavy glass door rattled under Cole’s fist, but he didn't immediately smash it. He just stood there on the other side of the glass, an arrogant, sickening smirk twisting his face. He had aged in the ten years since I last saw him. The teenage arrogance had hardened into cruel, calculated malice. He wore a dark, expensive leather jacket, and the same jagged crown tattoo Silas had was barely visible on his jawline.
Through the glass, I could see his four men spreading out in a semi-circle, effectively blocking the front entrance and the small parking lot.
Panic flared, sharp and blinding. My eyes shot across the street to my truck. I could faintly see the pink of Lily's raincoat slumped low in the passenger seat. She was hidden, for now. If I led them outside, they would find her.
Cole reached for the heavy metal handle of the glass door and pulled it open, stepping slowly into the quiet lobby. The bell above the door chimed a cheerful, mocking ding.
"Arthur," Cole said, his voice smooth and laced with poison. "It's been a long time. You're looking old."