8. The Victory Lap
Chapter eight
The Victory Lap
The sound of the satellite router chiming back to life was the most welcome thing I’d heard in two weeks.
It was a sharp, synthetic double-beep that broke the quiet of the cabin.
A second later, the small plastic box on the kitchen counter lit up, the solid green indicator light cutting through the shadows.
It meant Holt had finally managed to clear the debris off the receiver dish.
It meant the mudslide that had trapped us here couldn’t hold us anymore.
The real world was finally rushing back in.
I paced near the kitchen island, swaying gently from side to side.
Esther was strapped to my chest in a structured canvas carrier, her small, warm weight resting directly against my sternum.
She was exactly two weeks old, completely asleep, each breath a soft, rhythmic puff of air against my collarbone.
My body still ached. The unmedicated birth had left a lingering soreness in my pelvis, forcing me into a careful, measured walk.
But the oppressive, suffocating exhaustion of the third trimester was entirely gone.
My center of gravity belonged to me again.
I felt lighter, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.
The front door swung open, letting in the bitter chill of the mountain. The late October temperature had plummeted since the storm, freezing the mud from the slide into solid, jagged ruts. Holt stepped inside, stomping his boots on the mat to shed a layer of dried dirt and pine needles.
He unzipped his canvas jacket and looked over at the counter. “Dish is secure. The temporary mast is holding. How’s the connection?”
“Green light,” I said, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t wake the baby. “We’re online. Court is in session in ten minutes.”
Holt hung his coat on the hook before walking over to the sink and washing the dirt and grease from his hands with a bar of heavy pumice soap.
Drying them on a towel, he stepped up beside me and looked down at Esther.
His expression softened, just for a fraction of a second, before his usual guarded distance returned.
“You want me to take her?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said, resting my hand protectively over the back of the carrier. “She stays right here. I want her in the room when he does it.”
Holt gave a single nod. He pulled one of the wooden stools out for me. “Here we go.”
I sat down carefully, adjusted the carrier straps, and opened the rugged laptop. The second the Wi-Fi connected, the email client refreshed, downloading the encrypted link Renata Vance had sent to my inbox earlier that morning. I clicked it.
The screen flickered, loading the virtual public gallery for the County Probate Court.
Because we were logged in through a proxy server, my camera and microphone were automatically disabled.
I was nothing more than an anonymous black square with a randomized numerical ID, hiding in the digital back row of the feed.
The screen was divided into three main windows. The judge sat in a polished, wood-paneled courtroom, looking down at a stack of files. Below him, the clerk of the court typed methodically on a keyboard.
The third feed was a live stream from a high-end corporate conference room in the city.
Seeing that room was entirely surreal. I was sitting in a drafty log cabin, wearing a flannel shirt, smelling of woodsmoke and baby powder. On the screen, everything was sterile glass, polished mahogany, and bright fluorescent lighting.
Chase was sitting at the center of the table, joined by a man in a sharp navy suit—his overpriced estate lawyer.
Chase wore a tailored charcoal blazer and a crisp white shirt, the top button intentionally left undone for effect.
His sandy-blond hair was perfectly styled, but just slightly out of place—a deliberate choice to make him look like a man who hadn’t slept well in months.
Seated in a leather chair just over his right shoulder, perfectly in frame, was Sienna.
My sister was dressed in a modest, dark turtleneck.
Her blonde hair was pulled back with a simple, uncharacteristically severe clasp.
She wore minimal makeup, just enough to accentuate the dark circles under her eyes, making her look pale and fragile.
She was playing the role of the supportive, traumatized sister-in-law to absolute perfection.
A sudden stillness took over. I watched them breathe, watched Sienna place a comforting hand on Chase’s shoulder, and I felt absolutely nothing. I wasn’t looking at my family anymore. I was looking at two targets standing blindly on a trapdoor.
“Calling the matter of the Esther Reed Estate,” the judge announced, his voice echoing slightly through the microphone. He adjusted his reading glasses. “Petition to unseal the primary family trust due to lack of surviving heirs, filed by the surviving spouse, Chase Powell.”
“Ready for the petitioner, Your Honor,” Chase’s lawyer said smoothly.
“I have the death certificate issued by the county coroner, which cites the smartwatch telemetry data as circumstantial proof of death,” the judge stated, flipping a page in his file.
“But given the size of the estate and the lack of recoverable remains, the court requires a sworn attestation of the facts before I sign the release of the assets.”
The judge looked up, staring directly into the camera lens.
“Mr. Powell, please stand and raise your right hand.”
On the screen, Chase stood up. He buttoned his charcoal blazer with his left hand and raised his right.
I stared at his right hand, at his long, manicured fingers.
That was the same hand that had gripped the heavy cedar bench on my grandmother’s porch.
Those were the hands that had wedged the wood under the iron handle, sealing me inside a box of fire.
And now, he was holding that same hand up to a judge, preparing to use the legal system to legitimize the murder.
“Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, under penalty of perjury?” the clerk asked.
“I do,” Chase said.
I recognized the pitch of his voice instantly. It was his ‘client voice’. The exact, soothing, authoritative tone he used when he was closing a massive finance deal and needed the ‘mark’ to trust him completely. He was selling my death to the court.
“Mr. Powell,” the judge said. “You have submitted a sworn affidavit stating that you were present at the property at the time of the fire, and that you witnessed your wife perish in the flames. Is that correct?”
Holt stepped up right behind my chair, his breathing a slow, steady rhythm. My fingernail tapped a quiet, methodical beat against the edge of the laptop casing.
Chase dipped his head, perfectly faking his grief. He took a jagged breath, making sure the microphone caught the sound of his struggle.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Chase said. “I tried to get to her. I tried the door, but the heat had warped the frame. The structural collapse trapped her inside before I could break the glass. The smoke… it was too fast.”
The final piece locked into place. I stared at the screen, taking in the sheer scale of the lie.
He was so confident, so entirely secure in the narrative he had built with my mother and the fire investigator that he didn’t even blink.
He believed he was untouchable. He believed the fire had erased every trace of his crime, leaving him free to collect his prize.
Against my chest, Esther shifted in her sleep, letting out a tiny, soft sigh. The living proof his plan had failed was resting right here in my arms.
“And you swear to these facts under penalty of perjury?” the judge pressed, looking over his glasses.
“I do,” Chase said, looking directly into the camera.
I stopped tapping my finger. The snare had just pulled completely taut.
This was no longer a murky tragedy where a defense lawyer could claim panic in the smoke.
By swearing that oath in open court to claim the estate, Chase had crossed the point of no return.
The attempted murder was just the foundation; he had just handed Renata the fraud and perjury charges on a silver platter.
“Very well,” the judge said, picking up his pen.
“Based on the corroborating forensic data provided by the fire investigator and the sworn testimony of the petitioner, the court grants the petition. The assets of the Esther Reed Estate are unsealed and placed under the sole authority of the surviving spouse. Matter adjourned.”
The judge brought his gavel down. The sharp wooden crack echoed through the laptop speakers.
A second later, a notification chimed on the laptop screen.
I clicked the secure portal window. It was a direct message from Renata, who had been monitoring the feed from her own office in the city.
Judge signed the order. He has legal authority over the accounts. Trap is closed.
I logged out of the portal, closed the laptop, and tucked it under my arm. The cabin fell back into the quiet, rhythmic sounds of the wind outside and Esther’s soft breathing.
“It’s federal now,” Holt said quietly from behind me.
“Wire fraud,” I confirmed, keeping my voice dead level. “Perjury. Insurance fraud. And felony attempted murder. There is no bail for what he just did. He’s never walking out of custody.”
I stood up from the stool, supporting Esther’s weight with one hand. I walked past the kitchen island and headed down the short hallway to the bedroom.
I pulled a heavy canvas duffel bag from the closet and dropped it onto the bed.
I went to work, focusing solely on the steps ahead.
I packed the baby supplies we had stockpiled.
I packed the thick manila folder containing the medical records Della had painstakingly documented—the proof of my injuries from the fire, my blood pressure logs, and the official record of Esther’s off-grid birth.
Every piece of paper was another nail in Chase’s coffin.
From the top drawer of the nightstand, I pulled out a small, waterproof plastic case.
Inside was the microSD card holding the raw security footage of my husband barricading the door.
I inserted it into the laptop, uploaded the video file to Renata’s secure portal, and then tucked the card safely into the interior pocket of my duffel.
Finally, I reached under the bed. I pulled out a sealed plastic garbage bag.
Inside were the clothes I had worn on the day of the fire.
The maternity sweatpants and the oversized shirt, stained with black soot, smelling sharply of toxic ash and old sweat.
The fabric was charred at the edges. I had refused to throw them away, needing them as evidence, but also as a reminder.
I placed the plastic bag carefully on top of the medical files and zipped the heavy canvas closed.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked back out to the main room.
Holt was standing by the door, wearing his jacket. He held a set of truck keys in his hand.
“I cleared a path through the old logging trail with the chainsaw and the winch this morning,” Holt said, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag. “It bypasses the slide. It’s rough, but the truck will make it through the mud ruts. We have a full tank of gas.”
“Chase is hosting a memorial foundation dinner at the country club tomorrow night,” I said, adjusting the strap of the bag on my shoulder. “He’s using a shell charity in my grandmother’s name to launder the first wave of the estate money. It’s his victory lap.”
“You’re going to walk right through the front doors,” Holt said, a quiet certainty in his stare.
“No,” I said, securing my hand over my daughter’s back. “I’m going to walk right up to the podium.”
Holt gave a slow nod. Without another word, he opened the heavy wooden door, letting the freezing autumn wind rush into the cabin.
“I’ll pull the truck around,” he said.
I stood in the center of the room for one last moment, looking at the woodstove, the slate floor where my water had broken, and the basswood cradle in the corner. This mountain had kept us hidden. The isolation, the distance, and the mudslide had kept us safe. But the waiting was officially over.
I stepped out onto the porch. It was time to return to the city and finish this.