His Last Secret

Chapter 13

We drive through the night. The highway stretches black and endless. Julian's hands grip the wheel. His knuckles shine white in the dashboard light. Cold seeps through the cracked window and bites at my neck.

I pull my jacket tighter. It doesn't help.

Sarah Mitchell's journal sits between us on the center console. Pages yellowed. Ink faded in places, still sharp in others. A life written in cheap paper. I can still smell it — musty, old, like a grave that's been opened too early.

"She mentions a friend," I say. I flip to the dog-eared page. "Someone at the agency who knew about Arthur's operation."

"Names?" Julian's voice is flat. Tired.

"Initials. M.W."

"Marcus Webb."

"Or Margaret Webb." I watch his face. "Could be either."

Julian's jaw tightens. A muscle twitches near his ear. "Both dead now."

"Convenient."

He doesn't answer back. The silence presses in. Heavy. Suffocating. I can hear the tires humming against the asphalt. The wind whistling through the gap in the glass. My own breathing.

"Too convenient," I add.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying someone's cleaning house. Webb dies before we can talk to him. Margaret Webb dies before we can confirm anything. That's not coincidence. That's a sweep."

Julian's hands tighten on the wheel. The car drifts a little before he corrects it. "You think Morrison?"

"Morrison. Alex. Someone else we haven't met yet." I stare out the window. Streetlights flash past one by one. Each one a second I'm not getting back. "Elena was close to something. That's why she's dead."

"She was close to everything. That was the problem."

"Or the point."

We pull off at a motel. Cash only. Flickering neon sign that says VACANCY with the C burnt out. The parking lot is cracked asphalt and potholes filled with gravel. A pickup truck with a camper shell sits in the far corner. No other cars.

The clerk doesn't look at us twice. I'm glad. He's watching a small TV behind the counter. Some black-and-white movie I don't recognize. He takes the cash without a word and slides a key across the counter. Room 7.

The room stinks of bleach and old cigarettes. A single bulb buzzes overhead. The carpet is stained — wine, blood, hard to tell. A bed with a thin mattress. A nightstand with a lamp that doesn't work. Julian locks the door. Checks the window. Pulls the curtain closed. The fabric is cheap. Light bleeds through at the edges.

"Safe for now," he says.

"Safe."

The word tastes foreign. Plastic. Hollow. I don't think I've felt safe in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe ever.

I pull out Elena's old laptop from my bag. Julian's contact cracked the cloud storage an hour ago. The text message came while we were on the highway. A folder labeled THE KILLER stares back at me from the screen.

"Open it," Julian says.

I do.

Subfolders. Names.

Arthur Blackwood. Marcus Webb. Morrison. Alex Blackwood.

"He was investigating everyone," I whisper. The cursor hovers over each name. "Not just Arthur."

"Even Alex."

"Especially Alex." I click on the folder. "Why would she investigate her own brother-in-law?"

"Because she didn't trust him."

"And she was right not to."

Photos load. Grainy images from a security camera. Timestamps in the corner. Black and white. The quality is terrible but the figure is clear.

Alex at Elena's apartment building. The night she died.

My blood goes cold. I can feel it. Like ice water in my veins.

"When was this?"

"Eleven PM." Julian leans closer to the screen. "Two hours before Elena's estimated time of death."

"She had him there."

"Or he was there for another reason." But he doesn't sound convinced.

I scroll through more photos. Alex entering the building. Rain falling. His coat collar turned up. Alex leaving forty minutes later. Looking over his shoulder. His hand in his pocket like he's holding something.

"Look at his face," I say.

"He looks nervous."

"He looks guilty."

"How did Elena get these?" Julian asks. His voice is quieter now.

"She had cameras everywhere. The building, the parking lot, the hallway outside her door. She didn't trust anyone."

"Not even her own brother-in-law."

"Especially not him." I zoom in on the exit photo. "Forty minutes. That's enough time."

"For what?"

"To plant evidence. To take something. To argue. To—" I stop. I don't want to say it out loud.

Julian finishes for me. "To kill her."

I don't answer. I don't have to.

Julian's phone buzzes. The sound cuts through the silence like a knife. He checks it. His face goes pale. The color drains so fast I can see the veins under his skin.

"What?"

"Morrison." He holds up the screen. A text message. Two words. WHERE ARE YOU?

"Don't answer."

"I won't."

But the question hangs between us. How did Morrison find us? We didn't tell anyone where we were going. We paid cash. We used a burner phone.

"Unless he's tracking the car."

"We switched cars."

"Unless he's tracking us."

I look at my phone. At the laptop. At the journal. "He can't track a book."

"He can track us." Julian paces the room. Three steps one way. Three steps back. "If he has people at the agency, if he has access to traffic cameras, facial recognition—"

"Then we don't stay anywhere long enough for him to find us."

The room feels smaller now. The walls press closer. The buzzing light seems louder. I can smell the bleach again. Or maybe that's just fear.

"We need to move," I say.

"Where?"

"Somewhere Morrison doesn't know about."

"There's nowhere." Julian stops pacing. He looks at me. His eyes are tired. "There's nowhere left to run."

"Then we make somewhere."

I close the laptop. Grab the journal. Stand up. My legs feel shaky but I don't let it show.

Julian looks at me. Fear and hope fighting in his eyes. The fear is winning.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to where it started."

"The estate?" His voice cracks on the word.

"Elena's laptop is there. Her real one. The one she kept hidden."

"We searched everywhere."

"Not everywhere." I head for the door. "She told me once. Before she died. She said if anything ever happened to her, the answers were in the walls."

"In the walls?"

"Her father's study. The safe behind the painting. She said he never updated anything. Not the alarm. Not the combination."

Julian's eyes widen. "You think that's where—"

"I think that's where she put everything. The proof. The names. The evidence."

"But that's Arthur's space. He'd find it."

"Arthur doesn't know about the safe. Elena told me the combination was their mother's birthday. Arthur changed it when she died and never told his sons."

"How do you know that?"

"Because Elena guessed it. And she was right."

Julian stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods. Grabs his jacket.

"Let's go."

I head for the door. Julian follows. The night air hits my face. Cold. Sharp. Alive.

Somewhere out there, a killer is watching.

And we're about to walk right into his trap.