Chapter 5 – The Burner Phone

I stood in the shadows of the hedges, the threat echoing in my ears. David Miller had just threatened my son’s life.

I didn’t go back to the hospital. If David’s men were watching me, I couldn’t lead them to Amy and Frederick. I needed a safe place. I jogged three blocks down to a 24-hour diner and slid into a corner booth, ordering a black coffee to justify my presence.

I opened the ledger again, searching for leverage.

Near the back, tucked between two pages of fake invoices, I found a burner phone. It was small, cheap, and off. I held my breath and powered it on.

No password.

There was only one contact saved: The Fixer.

I opened the text threads. The messages were entirely between my mother and this “Fixer.”

Mother: David is getting paranoid. He wants the house in my name by Friday.

Fixer: Just get the wife’s signature. I have the notary stamp ready.

Mother: And the baby?

Fixer: The insurance policy is active. If the baby doesn’t wake up from the fever, you get half a million, and I get half a million.

I felt physically sick. They hadn’t just accidentally overdosed my son to keep him quiet. They were actively trying to murder him for an insurance payout.

I was going to kill her. My own mother. I was going to wrap my hands around her throat.

I scrolled up further, desperate to find out who the Fixer was.

Mother: Mason is acting up again. Remind him who his real father is if he asks for more money.

Fixer: Mason knows I’m his father. He won’t talk.

I dropped the phone on the table. Mason’s father? My uncle died twenty years ago.

I stared at the screen, my brain connecting the horrifying dots. The Fixer was David Miller. David was Mason’s father. Which meant my mother had been having an affair with my boss for over two decades.

“Refill, hon?” the waitress asked, startling me.

“No, thank you,” I muttered, leaving a five-dollar bill on the table.

I had to get to the police. I gathered the ledger and the burner phone, stepping out into the cool Nashville night.

As I walked toward the police station, a pair of headlights suddenly flicked on at the end of the alleyway. The engine revved.

The black SUV from my house was waiting for me.

It accelerated, speeding directly toward me, tires screaming on the asphalt. I dove behind a rusted dumpster just as the heavy vehicle smashed into the brick wall where I had been standing.

The passenger window rolled down, and a gun barrel pointed straight at my face.

It was Mason. He had made bail.

“Hand over the ledger, Connor,” Mason slurred, his face bruised from his arrest. “Or you die right here.”