Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Blake
The call came in just after ten. It had taken some time to charge my phone.
I’d spent the whole morning driving through town, checking bus stations, diners, anywhere someone scared and alone might stop to breathe. No one had seen her.
Biscuit was restless in the passenger seat, whining every time I slowed near a crowd.
When the phone buzzed, I almost didn’t look. Then I saw the name. Cas.
I hit answer so fast I nearly dropped it. “Tell me you found something.”
“I found a lot,” she said. Her voice was tight—not the calm, controlled tone she used when she was warning me off. This was different. Urgent.
“Start talking.”
“You were right to keep digging,” she said. “And I was wrong.”
I gripped the wheel. “About what?”
“Holly Turner.”
The sound of her name nearly stopped my heart. “Go on.”
Cas exhaled, paper rustling on her end. “So I went deeper. Looked at the original Clearwater Insurance filings. Turns out, the company was founded by Elizabeth Turner, who is Holly’s grandmother.
Solid reputation back in the day, clean audits, community awards, all of it.
Then Elizabeth died twelve years ago. That’s when things changed. ”
I didn’t breathe.
“She left her shares to Holly,” Cas went on. “Not her son or daughter-in-law—Holly. A legal trust was set up, transferring ownership to her when she turned twenty-one. Until then, her parents and a third trustee—a lawyer — were to manage the business ‘in her interest.’”
My throat felt tight. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying your girl never stood a chance,” Cas interrupted softly.
“The minute she turned eighteen, they started using her authority. Claim authorizations, fund transfers, all under her name. The kind of stuff she couldn’t possibly have understood.
They’ve been hiding behind her signature for years.
The engagement was never about love, Blake.
It was about keeping her quiet and legally compliant. ”
My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles went white.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
“It gets worse,” Cas said. “I traced her movements after she left your place. A missing person report was filed three days ago by her parents—public enough that the local cops flagged it automatically, and somehow your call wasn’t registered which is suspicious as hell.
But here’s the catch: Vincent’s got contacts in law enforcement.
A lot of them. When she signed her real name at a shelter downtown last night, the system pinged it. ”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“Standard intake forms,” Cas said grimly. “Her name hit the national missing persons database. Someone—probably Hale—got the alert before it even reached the responding officers. She stayed overnight at St. Anne’s Shelter. Left just after dawn.”
“Don’t tell me he—”
“He found her,” Cas finished quietly. “Security cameras show a black sedan pulling up out front at seven-forty-five. Matches the registration of Hale’s vehicle. He got her, Blake.”
Fuck.
“There’s more.” She rattled it off like someone reading a checklist they wish they didn’t have: “Bank transfers. Offshore shell companies. Two dozen cleared wires in and out of Clearwater accounts over the last three years to a set of Cayman-based corporations tied to a company registered in Vincent Hale’s name.
That alone is suspicious, Weston, but it’s the tie to policy denials that’s the killer. ”
“What tie?” My voice was only half there.
“I pulled the internal claims log,” she said.
“There’s an audit trail—timestamps, user IDs, the approval chain.
Holly’s signature is on some of the authorization stamps, yes, but the emails show she was copied in after the decision was made.
There are directives from the accounts office from an internal address tied to Vincent, to flag certain claims and mark them ‘exceptions’ with bogus reasons.
Weston Construction’s denial is in there.
My god, they’ve been deliberately denying payouts and funneling money into those shells. ”
I could feel the old hurt from my mother’s kitchen like a hand around my throat. “So what do we actually have?”
Cas was faster now, precise. “I’ve got bank records, SWIFT traces, internal Clearwater emails, and a signed invoice trail that shows transfers to a shell company that then paid personal expenses including high-end furniture, private jet charters, luxury vehicles, all tied back to accounts that match Vincent’s known associates.
I also grabbed a recording—not great quality, but it’s clear.
It’s Vincent on a call telling an operations manager to ‘use Holly’s authorization where needed. ’ He names dates, policy numbers.”
“Names and dates,” I echoed. “That’s…that’s the smoking gun.”
“It’s more than that,” Cas said. “This crosses state lines. Interstate fraud is federal. We can give this to a federal prosecutor if we're not confident with the locals, and they’ll open a criminal inquiry. We can also hand everything to the State Insurance Commissioner. Once those agencies get their claws in, they can freeze assets, place emergency conservatorship on Clearwater, and subpoena accounts. It will take the company off-line and cut whatever gravy train is feeding them.”
“And you think they’ll cave?” I asked.
“They’ll have to,” she said simply. “Their entire cash flow depends on those skims. If they think the feds are a minute away from freezing accounts and dragging company execs into grand jury rooms, they’ll panic.
People who‘ve been living off dirty money don’t like lights.
They’ll do anything to keep it off, but that means one of two things.
” She hesitated. “You need the Feds or cops you can trust to go in and get Holly. if they think their world is crumbling there’s a good chance she’ll get hurt to shut her up. ”
For a second, the world just…tilted. The edges went white around my vision.
Cas’s voice came through, low but steady. “I’m sending you the footage and his plate. I can flag his accounts, maybe get a trace on his phone, but if he’s got her, he won’t use it. You need to be careful. This guy doesn’t bluff. He’s old-school and manipulative, patient, violent when cornered.”
I was already moving—turning the truck around, gravel spitting under the tires. Biscuit barked once, sharp and urgent.
“Careful’s not on the table,” I said.
“Blake—”
“She’s got no one else,” I snapped. “Her parents handed her over. The cops won’t help, they’ll send her right back. So don’t tell me to stand down.”
There was silence on the line. Then, quietly: “Then you need help.” The call ended, but Cas’s last words hung there, heavy as the snow beginning to fall.
I knew exactly where to find my crew. Their wives were off somewhere drinking mimosas after last-minute shopping, and the guys always ended up at Rafe’s place until pickup duty rolled around.
When I walked in, Rafe was at the coffeemaker while Mason, Duke, and Tyler were arguing over hockey highlights like the world wasn’t about to tilt sideways.
“Need a favor,” I said.
That ended the noise in an instant.
These were the same men who’d followed me into burning buildings, collapsing roofs, and once into a frozen river when the crane went sideways. I didn’t ask for help unless it mattered.
Mason was the first to speak. “This about the girl?”
Rafe’s head snapped up. “What girl?”
“The one from the warehouse,” Mason said. “Everyone’s been talking.”
I exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Her name’s Holly. She’s been staying with me. She’s in trouble—serious trouble. Her family’s dirty, and they’re trying to force her into marrying some bastard named Vincent.”
Duke muttered a curse, low and angry. Rafe didn’t blink. “So what’s the plan?”
“Getting her out,” I said. “She’s back home, but not by choice. No one gets hurt unless they start it. I just need her safe.”
Rafe’s mouth tightened, and he gave a single nod. “Then let’s move.”
The drive to the Turner place was a blur of headlights, snow, and anger.
Biscuit whined in the back seat every time I slowed down, like even he knew what was waiting for us.
Rafe sat beside me, silent but steady, and we didn’t need words.
Rafe had worked for my dad as an apprentice.
We'd grown into the business together and I would trust this guy with my life.
Was trusting him with my life, because if we didn't get Holly back, my life would be over.
The Turners’ house was textbook privilege—white pillars, a wreath on the door perfect enough for a magazine cover, and not a single flake of snow left on the driveway.
The black sedan Cas had told me about sat out front, frost already creeping over the windows.
The whole place looked staged, spotless, and cold.
I didn’t think. I marched straight up the steps with the guys behind me and pounded on the door hard enough to make the glass rattle.
Her father opened it—a man with slicked-back hair and a smirk that never quite reached his eyes—and the moment he saw me, he tried to slam it shut. My boot caught the gap.
“Blake Weston,” I said evenly. “I’m here for Holly.”
“She’s not here.”
“You're lying. I've seen the video of that piece of crap picking her up from the shelter.”
Rafe and Duke had moved in behind me, arms crossed, solid walls of quiet muscle. Tyler and Mason watched from the driveway, scanning the street.
Turner's eyes widened in surprise, but then straightened his tie, trying to puff himself up. “She’s home where she belongs. You’re trespassing.”
“I’m not leaving without her.”
“We’ll call the police.”
“Please do,” I said, voice flat. “I’ll wait.”
That made him hesitate. Crooked men always hated official eyes on their business.
There was always the chance he hadn't locked them all down and a lot of cops couldn't be bought. His wife appeared in the hallway—polished, brittle, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “She’s not well,” she said smoothly. “She’s had a breakdown. We’re getting her help. ”
“Is that what you call locking her in the dark?” My voice shook before I forced it steady again. “I want to see her now or I'll have every law enforcement agency in the known universe out here.”
For a heartbeat no one moved, and then Vincent strolled out of the den. His tie was loose, his smirk perfect, his confidence oozing like cheap cologne. “You’re making a scene, Weston,” he said. “Holly’s my fiancée. She’s not going anywhere.”
Rafe murmured in a stage whisper beside me, “You want me to call Zoe?”
I caught on immediately. “Yeah, Rafe—what’s the name of that federal agent your sister married again?”
It was pure bluff. Rafe’s brother-in-law actually taught kindergarten, but the Turners froze. Even Vincent’s smile faltered, just a fraction.
Finally, Turner snapped, “Go wake her.”
Ten long minutes later, Holly appeared.
She looked smaller than I remembered, shoulders hunched, hands folded tightly in front of her as if she could make herself disappear.
The bruise under her eye had faded, but the light behind her gaze was gone.
Her mother’s hand sat heavy on her shoulder, guiding her like she was property, and Vincent lingered close enough to make it clear he thought she was his.
“Sweetheart,” her mother cooed, “these men want to take you away from your family.”
Holly flinched at the word sweetheart.
Her father stepped forward, his voice dripping false warmth. “You frightened us, pumpkin. But we forgive you. You’ve been confused.”
Vincent moved closer, his tone smooth as poison. “No one wants to hurt you, darling. You belong here, where you’re loved.”
She whispered the word loved, but it didn’t sound like belief. It sounded like surrender.
Holly
Blake’s voice cut through all of it—low, rough, and steady.“Holly.” Something in the way he said my name made me look up. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pushing. Just waiting.
He reached into his jacket, and when his hand came out, I forgot how to breathe.
Banjo.
My heart stuttered. “Banjo?” The word scraped out of me like a prayer.
He nodded. “Yeah. He’s been guarding your bed, but he’s getting lonely.” His throat worked, and then, quieter, “We both are. Biscuit's in the truck."
My vision blurred. My lower lip trembled, and I bit it, hard, trying to stop.
“So,” he said gently, “Banjo, Biscuit, and me… we kinda need you home, okay?”
The world went silent even as my father started to speak—something about family, about forgiveness—but my mother touched his arm, and the words died. She was staring at Blake with disgust. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The only thing that existed was that tiny, worn bunny in his hands.
“Holly,” my Mom tried again. “Think what Nana would have wanted.”
And that was it. All I needed because I knew to my toes Nana wanted me to be happy. My fingers twitched before I even meant them to. Then I reached out, shaking, until my fingertips brushed the soft, frayed fabric.
It broke something open inside me. Not fear. Not even sadness. Just this raw, aching relief like the world had been holding me underwater, and I’d finally taken a breath.
I took a slow step forward. “Holly.” My voice came out rough. “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to. Not now. Not ever.”
Her eyes flicked toward me, just once. A spark. Then she looked down again.
Her father’s tone hardened. “You don’t understand, Weston. She’s fragile.”
I met his gaze head-on. “No. She’s strong as hell. You just broke her for so long she forgot what strength feels like.”
That wiped the smirk right off Vincent’s face, and Holly saw it. She looked up again, studying me as if she was weighing every lie she’d ever been told against the truth she wanted to believe.
Then her chin lifted, just slightly. “Amanda said she was your fiancée,” she whispered. “She told me.”
The name burned like acid, but I held her gaze. “She was," I replied honestly.” "But I haven't seen her in nearly three years since she cheated on me."
Her mother scoffed behind her. “Honestly. How melodramatic.”
Her father stepped forward, voice sharp. “Enough. You’re staying.”
Holly’s hand trembled once, then went still. She straightened, squared her shoulders, and for the first time spoke with absolute clarity.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to hurt.
Vincent’s smile vanished entirely. “Holly,” he warned.
She looked at him, and I saw the shift happen—the flicker turning into something fierce. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”
I moved then, slow and steady, holding out my hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”