A black SUV. Newer model. Tinted windows.
The engine idled for a long moment.
Then the door opened.
A man stepped out—tall, square-jawed, late forties maybe. Dressed like he
belonged in corporate security: dark jacket, cargo pants, boots that had seen
some use. He wasn’t the man Ronny had seen on Main Street, but something about
him radiated the same cold intention.
He surveyed the clearing like he owned it.
Then, without speaking, he opened the back of the SUV and pulled
something out.
A shovel.
Maya’s hand found Ronny’s sleeve. “He’s here for her.”
Ronny whispered, “If he finds the grave’s disturbed—”
“He’ll know we saw her,” she finished.
The man started walking toward the barn, shovel slung casually over his
shoulder. The way a man carries it when he’s done it before. When it’s a tool,
not a weapon—but can easily be both.
Ronny whispered, “We can’t let him get in here.”
Maya nodded once, pulled out her phone, and hit record.
The man crossed the threshold, eyes adjusting to the low light. His
footsteps crunched softly on the floorboards. He took three more steps—
“Stop right there,” Ronny said, standing up slowly.
The man froze.
He tilted his head, then smiled faintly. “Didn’t expect company.”
Maya stepped out beside Ronny. “We know who’s buried here.”
His smile vanished. “No. You think you know. What you actually
have is a problem.”
“You threatening us?” Ronny asked, stepping forward.
“I’m telling you that if you walk away right now, nobody gets hurt. This
all stays a story between you two and whatever old bones are rotting under this
floor.”
“We have her necklace,” Maya said. “And documents. Photos. Signed
testimony.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s dangerous talk.”
“Truth usually is,” Ronny said.
The man’s posture shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, feet spreading.
Calculating.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You think you’re going to take all this to the
cops? Maybe some podunk newspaper? You really believe anyone’s going to dig up
eighty-year-old secrets and risk pissing off every family with money and
property tied to this land?”
Maya stepped closer. “It’s not just history. It’s a murder. One that was
covered up by people still walking around with clean reputations. People whose
names are on buildings.”
He shrugged. “And those people still have more reach than you realize.”
Ronny stared at him. “What’s your name?”
The man’s expression stayed blank. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Then here’s what does matter,” Ronny said. “We’re not afraid of
you. We’re not walking away. And if anything happens to either of us—there are
people who know where we’ve been, what we’ve found, and who might want to shut
us up.”
The man studied them. Then, to their surprise, he took a step back.
“I’ll pass that message along,” he said. “But so you understand—this
doesn’t end with a blog post or a front-page article. This is legacy land.
Blood-soaked, if need be. And some people are willing to spill more of it to
keep it quiet.”
He turned and walked back to the SUV, the shovel still in hand.
Without another word, he drove off.
Ronny let out the breath he’d been holding.
Maya stopped recording and slipped the phone into her pocket. “We just
stared down a professional fixer.”
Ronny nodded slowly. “And he blinked.”
But inside, he knew this wasn’t over.
They’d kicked a nest. And now it was awake.
No comments:
Post a Comment