Chapter 8 - The Attorney General Asked Me to Meet Him Alone
Samuel Vance told me to come alone.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because men in compromised positions always seemed to believe “come alone” was still a reasonable sentence.
“No.”
“Evelyn, if I wanted to hurt you, I had twelve years.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“You found Thomas’s recording. You deserve the rest.”
“Then send it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know who has access to my systems anymore.”
That, at least, matched my reality.
“Where?”
“The old courthouse chapel. Eleven o’clock.”
“Public place?”
“Barely.”
“Why there?”
“Your father chose it once.”
Before I could ask what that meant, he hung up.
I did not go alone.
I went visibly alone.
Naomi, Lucas, and two investigators stayed within a block. I wore a wire that recorded locally, not through state servers.
At 10:58, I entered the courthouse chapel.
Vance sat in the last pew.
No security detail.
No assistant.
He looked older than he did on television.
“You brought backup,” he said.
“Obviously.”
A faint smile.
“Thomas would approve.”
“Stop talking about my father like you knew him.”
“I did know him.”
“You met him four days before he died.”
“I met him many times before that.”
I sat three pews away.
“Project Lantern.”
Vance looked toward the stained-glass windows.
“It began as a corruption investigation.”
“Whose?”
“The Attorney General’s Office. Eighteen years ago.”
“That makes no sense. Dad called it a system.”
“Because it became one.”
He explained slowly.
Lantern had been a confidential informant and intelligence program targeting municipal corruption. Local officials agreed to feed information upward. In exchange, prosecutors sometimes delayed charges to build larger cases.
Then people learned how valuable delay could be.
Investigations were postponed for campaign donors.
Evidence was traded.
Targets became informants, then protected operators.
A program meant to map corruption became the infrastructure that managed it.
“Who corrupted it?” I asked.
Vance looked at me.
“Everyone who decided one compromise was temporary.”
“Names.”
“Ross was local enforcement. Developers financed slush funds. Lawyers moved money. Prosecutors controlled timing.”
“Diane Mercer?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Victor Sloane?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
His eyes did not move.
“Yes.”
At least he said it.
“What did you do?”
“I delayed a prosecution.”
“For money?”
“No.”
“For what?”
“My wife.”
I said nothing.
“She had been charged with prescription fraud years earlier. Mercer found out. She told me the case could disappear if I delayed warrants in Westbridge for ninety days.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
“What happened during those ninety days?”
“Records vanished. Witnesses changed stories. One man disappeared.”
“Dad?”
“No. Thomas came later.”
Vance rubbed his hands.
“When your father uncovered suspicious municipal contracts, he came to me. I wanted to help him.”
“But?”
“But Mercer knew before I could move. Ross confronted Thomas. Victor negotiated.”
“Negotiated what?”
“Thomas would surrender the ledger and leave town.”
“My father never planned to leave.”
“I know.”
“What happened the night he died?”
Vance looked sick.
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
“I swear.”
“You were with Ross days earlier.”
“Because I was trying to keep Ross from hurting him.”
“And you left early.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“You saw the photograph.”
“Dad wrote, ‘If I die, ask why Samuel left early.’ So I’m asking.”
Vance closed his eyes.
“Because Mercer called me.”
“What did she say?”
“That my wife’s old case file had resurfaced. She told me if I stayed with Thomas, she would destroy my family.”
“So you left.”
“Yes.”
“And Ross stayed.”
“Yes.”
I hated him in that moment.
Not because he had killed my father.
Because maybe he hadn’t.
Because cowardice had done enough.
“Where is the ledger now?”
“I thought Thomas gave it to you.”
“So did Mom.”
Vance looked surprised.
“He didn’t?”
“Pike stole the book before I could check.”
At Samuel Pike’s name, Vance went rigid.
“What?”
“You know him.”
“Evelyn, Samuel Pike isn’t his real name.”
The chapel seemed to quiet.
“What is it?”
“Daniel Bennett.”
Michael’s former girlfriend’s father.
The retired detective who signed Dad’s crash report.
I stood.
“Pike is Bennett?”
“He went into hiding six years ago. Federal cooperation agreement. New identity.”
“Why?”
“He was Ross’s partner.”
My mind raced.
“He investigated Dad’s crash.”
“He staged the report.”
I could barely hear my own voice.
“Was Dad murdered?”
Vance looked at me for a long time.
“Yes.”
The word entered the room softly.
No thunder.
No dramatic sound.
Just yes.
I gripped the pew.
“How?”
“Thomas survived the initial crash.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“His truck went through the bridge rail. He was injured but alive.”
“And?”
“Bennett arrived first.”
“What did he do?”
Vance’s eyes shone.
“He called Ross.”
I whispered, “And Ross?”
“Ross ordered him to leave Thomas in the water.”
My legs almost failed.
“Bennett obeyed?”
“For eleven minutes.”
“What does that mean?”
“He waited eleven minutes before calling rescue.”
“Dad drowned.”
“Yes.”
I heard my mother’s voice in memory.
Your father hated deep water.
I sat because I had to.
“Why would Bennett tell us anything now?”
“Guilt. Fear. Or leverage.”
“Where is Claire?”
Vance shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Then the chapel door opened behind me.
Naomi’s voice came through my hidden earpiece.
“Evelyn, do not turn around.”
Vance saw something over my shoulder.
His face emptied.
Naomi continued.
“There’s a rifle in the balcony.”
I dropped.
Glass exploded.
Vance jerked backward.
A bullet tore through the wooden pew where his chest had been.
Investigators rushed the side entrance.
The shooter vanished through an upper corridor.
When I looked up, Vance was on the floor.
Alive.
Bleeding from splinters.
And carved into the shattered pew beside him was a fresh symbol.
A small lantern.
After the shot, Vance refused pain medication until he finished one sentence.
“Don’t let Mercer control the narrative.”
I stared at him. “You were almost killed and that’s your concern?”
“It should be yours too.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever controls the first complete version of this story controls who looks insane when the second version appears.”
Outside, agents found the sniper’s escape route through a service staircase supposedly locked for renovation. The lock had been opened with a government maintenance key.
Another official credential.
Another institution used as camouflage.
As paramedics lifted Vance, he grabbed my sleeve.
“Your father didn’t trust heroes.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good.”
May you like
Then his eyes drifted toward the shattered stained glass.
“He trusted systems even less.”
