Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at the River
The sun was setting over the James River, painting the water in deep, bloody shades of crimson and orange.
I sat in my truck at the end of a deserted gravel road that led to an old, abandoned shipping dock we used to play near when we were kids. It was a place Melissa and I knew well—a relic of our childhood before our parents died and she became the only family I had left.
I had called her.
"I have the lab records, Melissa," I had told her, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "I know about Dr. Miller. I know about the Nassau account. Meet me at the old dock in thirty minutes, or the FBI gets the files."
She had agreed instantly.
Now, the headlights of her black Mercedes cut through the twilight, the expensive tires crunching on the gravel.
The car stopped twenty feet from my truck. The doors opened, and Melissa and Grant stepped out.
Melissa wore a thick trench coat, her face pale, her eyes red and swollen. Grant stood beside her, his coat open, his hand buried in his pocket. I knew he was holding a gun. He was a cornered animal now, and cornered animals are the most dangerous.
"David," Melissa said, her voice shaking as she walked toward me. "Please, David. You don't understand. It wasn't supposed to go this far."
"Which part?" I asked, stepping out of my truck. I stood in the middle of the gravel road, my arms crossed, my eyes locked on hers. "The part where you poisoned my daughter? Or the part where you spent her charity money on your new house?"
"She was sick, David!" Melissa cried, tears streaming down her face—but I could see the lie in them now. They weren't tears of grief; they were tears of fear. "She had a congenital issue! The medicine... we just wanted to make her look a little sicker so we could get the funding for the experimental treatment in Switzerland! We were trying to save her!"
"You lied to me," I said, my voice a low, freezing rumble. "You lied to her. She died in my arms, Melissa. She was seven years old. She spent her last days terrified of you."
"David, be reasonable," Grant stepped forward, his voice smooth, trying to regain control of the situation. He took his hand out of his pocket, holding a small silver revolver. "We have one.two million dollars in the Nassau account. We can split it. Three ways. Equal shares. You can start over. You can go to South America, build a new life. Nobody has to know about Miller."
"You think I want your blood money?" I asked, looking at the silver gun. "You think I want the price of my daughter’s life?"
"It’s the only way you walk away from this, David," Grant said, his eyes turning cold and hard. "If you don't take the deal, you die here. A tragic suicide. A father driven mad by grief. It’s a clean story. The police will believe it."
"They won't," I said.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small wireless earbud. I pressed the button, activating the speaker.
May you like
"Detective Vance," I said. "Did you get all of that?"
From the dark tree line surrounding the gravel road, the high-beam headlights of six police cruisers suddenly flashed on, blinding us in a wall of brilliant, white light.
