Chapter 5 Fire On Forsythia Lane #10
“I know,” Weston says, a smile in his voice.
“Slowly,” I add.
“Yes.”
“Painfully.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he answers cheerily. “But we’re not going to get arrested.”
I step away from the window, shedding my bathrobe and reaching for a pair of jeans. “I’ll be down in two minutes.”
WESTON
I can’t believe I convinced Tessa to sneak into the Chronicle with me after hours. But here she is, right by my side, her hair still wet from the shower. She looks extra beautiful when she’s doing something she might get in trouble for.
The rain is falling hard by the time I park my truck outside the Chronicle; low rumbles of thunder are rolling through the sky, drawing closer.
We unlock the door, and I snap on the lights.
“Shouldn’t we keep them off?” Tessa asks, wide eyes scanning the empty office like monsters might be lurking between the cubicles. “What if someone sees?”
“Rule number one when you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be,” I say, striding down the row of cubicles. “Act like you are exactly where you should be.”
Tessa sighs, rubbing her arms. “So you have a cover story, I assume?”
“Mm-hmm. Forgot my phone in the office. Can’t remember where I left it.”
“And you needed me to come help you find it?”
I tilt my head back and forth. “I needed someone to call the phone so I know where it is.”
Tessa has no comeback for that, and I feel a blip of victory.
My cover story is bulletproof enough that even she can’t poke holes in it.
We make our way across the office, stopping when we reach Marcus’s cubicle.
I drop into his desk chair, which stinks like his cologne, and reach over to power on his computer.
It takes only a few moments to boot up, and Tessa’s head is on a swivel the whole time as she dutifully plays the lookout. When the desktop finally loads, I dive straight for the “recent items” menu in the upper left corner of the screen.
My eyes scan the list: internet browsers, word documents, printer, PDF reader, file converter… Photoshop.
“Why would Marcus be using Photoshop?” I murmur under my breath, double-clicking to open the program.
“Maybe he was working on some graphic design project?” Tessa suggests with her usual heart of gold.
I shake my head. “He doesn’t do graphic design for us.”
Once Photoshop loads, I scan the recent projects list—the one at the top has a filename of HM_DRAFT4.
HM as in Harrison Montgomery?
I try to open it up, but an error message pops onto the screen.
“Source files not found,” I read quietly, turning to Tessa. “Do you know what that means?”
“It means whatever files he was working with are no longer located where they were before. He probably deleted them.” She leans over my shoulder, taking the mouse and opening up the trash bin in the bottom right corner.
Sure enough, it’s full of Photoshop files. Tessa’s wet hair brushes against my face as she leans closer to work her magic—selecting all the deleted files and recovering them in a few keystrokes.
“There. Try opening the project again.”
I reclaim the mouse and reopen Photoshop, bringing up the document labeled HM_DRAFT4. I wait with bated breath for it to load, and when the project fills the screen, holy shit.
The air rushes out of my lungs.
It’s a screenshot of an email—to Harrison Montgomery, from a gibberish email address. The subject line reads: You’ll be sorry.
Chills crawl over the backs of my arms as I read the body of the email out loud.
“You’ll be sorry for what you did to me, Montgomery. If you think you can take my home, then turn around and make bank off it… you’ve got another think coming. Watch your back.”
“Why does Marcus have a screenshot of this email?” Tessa whispers close to my ear.
I shake my head, pointing to the sidebar menu on the screen. “It’s not a screenshot. Look at all these text layers. He created this email. It’s forged. And there are at least three others like it.”
Tessa’s breathing quickens as the truth hits us both, the final side of the Rubik’s Cube coming together.
“Marcus has been working for Montgomery in secret,” I murmur.
“That’s who he was on the phone with the other day.
He was talking about printing these emails off here and delivering them…
so Montgomery wouldn’t have the files in his computer and it couldn’t be traced back to him.
” A dry laugh rattles in my chest as it all pieces together.
“No wonder Marcus was able to afford all those expensive suits. He’s known it was Montgomery this whole time, and he’s been getting hush money in exchange for helping the guy cover it up—and framing Boone for arson. ”
Tessa’s eyes dart back and forth over the computer screen. “How do we get this to the police?”
“I’ll take screenshots of the project files and send them to the printer.
There are probably more emails like this in his recents.
I’ll check. You go to the printer room and get the papers as soon as they come out.
” I gesture behind me to the little room down the hallway where our printers and scanners are kept.
“Done,” Tessa says, and takes off towards the printer room. I watch as she disappears through the door, then roll my chair back to the computer and start capturing screenshots—immediately sending them to print.
My heart pounds in my chest as I navigate back to the main menu and open the list of recent projects, finding another one called HM_DRAFT3.
Same deal as before. A threatening email from an encrypted address, the body of the message dripping with vengeance and warnings that Montgomery will “get what’s coming to him.”
I shake my head in disbelief, capturing another screenshot of the open project files. As I hit print on the third file, I hear the telltale creak of a door opening. I figure it’s Tessa coming out of the printer room and say over my shoulder, “Hey, I’ve got a few more coming. Stand by.”
That’s when the lights go out.
I freeze, the glow of the computer screen suddenly blinding in the dark. For a second, I think the power went out because of the thunderstorm. But if it had, the computer would’ve died too.
Someone shut the lights off.
Someone is here.
My blood runs cold as a knot of dread tightens in the pit of my stomach. Slow footsteps echo over the floor, coming from my left or right, I can’t tell—until they come to a stop right behind me.
“Still haven’t learned the rules of the game, have you, little boss?”
WESTON
Every muscle in my body locks up at the sound of Marcus’s slithering voice. I’m about to whirl around and punch him so hard he’ll see stars when—
Click.
My heart vaults into my throat.
“Put your hands over your head.”
I obey his command, slowly bringing my hands up and regretting every decision I’ve ever made, especially bringing Tessa here with me tonight.
“Now back away from the computer,” Marcus instructs, his voice a low growl. “And tell your little girlfriend to shred those papers you just printed.”
“Or what?” I bite back. “You’ll shoot me? Don’t you think that’ll land you in prison for more time than forgery?”
Okay, that was probably way too cocky a thing to say when you’re being held at gunpoint.
But this situation doesn’t feel real to me.
Marcus might be a con artist and a forger and a scummy hack, but he’s not a cold-blooded killer.
He’s not even holding his pistol properly, I realize, when I turn around slowly and stand up, keeping the swivel chair between us.
As I study him in the pale glow of the computer light, I wonder if this is the first time he’s ever held a gun.
“I won’t shoot you,” he seethes with a bloodless smile.
“I’ll leave a few holes in the wall and call the police and have you arrested for attempted murder.
These documents could easily be your handiwork.
” He jerks his head towards the Photoshop file on the computer screen.
“This isn’t my computer. It’s your father’s.
And technically, everything that belongs to your father also belongs… to you.”
My eyebrows rise. “You’d pin all this on me? Why? What the hell do you have to gain by seeing me punished for something you did? Are you literally that jealous of me?”
Marcus’s grin looks evil in the ghostly blue light. His laugh comes out even more deranged. “Jealous? Why would I be jealous of an amputee?”
That’s the last straw.
I may be an amputee, but I can still use my knees pretty well. And right now, I’m willing to bet my life on it.
Driving one knee up, I kick the swivel chair and send it flying straight into Marcus, knocking him flat on his back. The gun goes off, firing into the ceiling and making my ears ring. I don’t waste a second. I dive on top of him, slamming my fist into his stomach, then hooking him hard in the face.
I can barely see, but I can feel well enough to ground and pound him—furious adrenaline rocketing through my veins. A guttural cry of pain erupts from Marcus as I drive my fist into his stomach again, struggling to blindly wrestle the gun out of his hands.
Tessa must hear all the ruckus, because suddenly the door to the printer room swings open, letting out a shaft of bright light.
“Stay back, Tessa!” I yell to her. “Call the police!”
She vanishes back through the door just as I manage to yank the pistol away from Marcus.
I toss it into the darkness before he can use it against me—then we’re back to grappling each other like animals.
Without a weapon in the mix, I have the advantage over him.
I may be just a “kid” in his eyes—and a disabled one at that—but I don’t need legs to feed him a knuckle sandwich.