Chapter 2 - Shadows from the Past
Agent Hayes didn't look like the kind of person who delivered good news. He had iron-gray hair cropped close to his scalp, deep lines etched around his mouth, and eyes that missed absolutely nothing. He glanced at Oliver, then back at me, gesturing toward the hallway with a nod of his head.
"Outside, please, Ms. Ellison."
I hesitated, looking down at Oliver. The boy grabbed the edge of my sleeve with his uninjured hand, his fingers clutching my fabric like a lifeline. "Don't go," he pleaded. "Please don't leave me."
"I'll be right outside the door, I promise," I whispered, gently untangling his fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."
I stood up, smoothed down my oversized sweater, and walked out into the corridor, pulling the door half-closed behind me. Agent Hayes stepped back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What's going on?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "The hospital said he was in a traffic accident. What does a federal treasury agent have to do with an eleven-year-old kid?"
Agent Hayes pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket, flipping it open. "Rachel Vance—or rather, Rachel Vance-Miller—hasn't just been living a quiet life out by the coast, Ms. Ellison. For the past three years, our division has been tracking a sophisticated corporate embezzlement and shell-company fraud ring operating out of Seattle and Portland. The primary accountant orchestrating the paper trail was a man named Arthur Miller. Rachel's husband."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Miller.
"She married Arthur Miller?" I breathed out, disbelief washing over me. "Arthur was our accounting professor’s star pupil back in college. He was... he was slippery even then."
"He was more than slippery," Hayes said grimly. "He embezzled upwards of twelve million dollars from regional tech startups before disappearing off the grid six months ago. Last week, federal marshals closed in on his primary operational stash house. Arthur Miller is currently in federal custody awaiting trial. But Rachel and the boy vanished before we could execute the secondary search warrants."
I stared at the federal agent, my mind struggling to connect the bright, ambitious, slightly chaotic Rachel I knew in college with the wife of a fugitive white-collar criminal.
"You think Rachel is involved?" I asked defensively. "She left college before we even graduated. I haven't spoken to her in twelve years."
"We don't know yet whether she was an active accomplice or a terrified hostage," Hayes replied honestly. "When Arthur was arrested, he sang like a canary, claiming Rachel had a separate set of hard drives containing the offshore routing numbers. Two days ago, Arthur's associates broke bail restrictions. We believe they caught up with Rachel near Astoria. Her car was found abandoned off Highway 101 this morning. Doors unlocked, keys in the ignition, purse on the passenger seat. No sign of Rachel."
My knees felt weak. I reached out and steadied myself against the hospital wall. "And Oliver? Where does he fit into this?"
"He's the only leverage left," Hayes said softly, looking through the narrow glass window into room twelve, where Oliver was staring blankly at the wall. "If those men are looking for Rachel, they're looking for whatever she hid before she vanished. And if they know about Oliver, he's in grave danger."
"He's a child!" I snapped, my voice rising in sudden, fierce protection. "He's eleven years old! He just got hit by a car!"
"Which is why you need to decide right now, Ms. Ellison," Hayes said, locking his gaze onto mine with unwavering intensity. "The hospital is discharging him into protective custody tonight. Child services wants to place him in a state foster facility. But if you take him—if you step into this—you become part of a federal investigation. Those men are looking for that boy because they think he knows where his mother hid the drive."
I looked back through the glass at Oliver. He turned his head, our eyes meeting through the glass. He didn't look like a potential liability in a federal conspiracy. He looked like a terrified little boy whose mother had vanished into thin air, leaving him with nothing but a bruised wrist, a hospital gown, and my name written on a piece of paper.
Twelve years ago, I let friendship die because of pride and stubborn silence. I was not going to let a frightened child pay the price for sins he didn't commit.
May you like
I turned back to Agent Hayes, my chin lifting.
"Draw up the temporary guardianship papers," I said. "He's coming home with me."
