Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Print Shop
I couldn't sleep that night.
The image of Maya asking if they were going to live in the car again burned behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes.
At 5:30 AM on Tuesday, I was already at Mercer Print & Binding. I unlocked the basement archive room—a dust-covered vault filled with Tom’s old filing cabinets, tax ledgers, and architectural blueprints from the decades we had operated the business.
I pulled open the drawer labeled Vance Development Litigation - 2014.
Tom had been a meticulous record keeper. When Vance had tried to destroy our print shop ten years ago, Tom hadn't just fought back with lawyers; he had kept copies of every single fraudulent building permit, every forged inspection report, and every shell company document Vance’s henchmen had thrown at us.
As I blew the dust off a thick leather-bound binder, a folded piece of yellowed paper fell out.
It was a hand-written letter from Tom, dated three months before he passed away.
Fiona,
If you are reading this, it means I’m no longer there to protect the shop. Vance never stopped trying to buy out this neighborhood. His lawyer, a man named Brody, still calls the shop every six months offering bottom-dollar buyouts. Don't sell to them, Fi. Vance uses a fake inspection firm called 'Apex Safety Systems' to declare buildings hazardous so he can buy them for pennies. If he ever comes after our neighbors, check the city permit archive for Permit #884-B. That's where he hid his offshore accounts.
I love you. Keep printing the truth.
– Tom
Tears welled in my eyes as I clutched my husband's letter to my chest.
Tom hadn't just left me memories; he had left me a weapon.
At 8:00 AM, my front door opened. The brass bell chimed.
A man in a sharp charcoal suit with slicked-back gray hair and cold, predatory blue eyes stepped into the lobby. Behind him stood two burly men in leather jackets.
It was Victor Vance.
"Fiona Mercer," Vance said, his voice smooth, oily, and dripping with false warmth. "It’s been a long time. I was sorry to hear about Tom."
I stood behind the front counter, my hand resting silently under the desk near the emergency panic button.
"What do you want, Victor?" I asked coldly.
Vance laid an envelope on the glass counter.
"I’m making you a final offer for Mercer Print & Binding," Vance said, leaning in. "Fifty thousand dollars cash. You close up shop by Friday, pack your presses, and hand over the key."
I laughed—a sharp, clear laugh that caught him off guard. "Fifty thousand? This shop is worth half a million dollars, Victor. And it's not for sale."
May you like
Vance’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, chilling mask of absolute menace.
"You should take the money, Fiona," Vance whispered, leaning over the counter until he was inches from my face. "Tragic things happen to old buildings. Fires happen. Electrical failures happen. And people who get involved in things that don't concern them—like the Harbor View apartments—sometimes find themselves losing everything they have left."
