What Marcus Found

“You’ve got three minutes,” Marcus said. He pressed a slim, flat piece of metal into my hand. “Tyler’s sedan is old enough for this. Work it between the driver’s window and the rubber seal, catch the lock rod, then lift. After that, release the trunk from inside. Move quickly. If the porch light starts flickering, they’re coming out. Leave it and run.”

The tool was icy against my palm. I inhaled once, eased out of the office, and entered the vast, unheated garage.

I slipped through the side entrance into the night. Wind battered the yard, shaking bare oak branches until they clattered together. I bent low and let the thick hedges hide me as I crept forward. Frost snapped under my boots. My whole body strained toward the house, waiting for the kitchen door to fly wide.

Tyler’s sedan loomed ahead. I ducked beside its rear bumper, close enough to feel the exhaust pipe’s chill against my cheek.

Over the trunk, I could see the kitchen windows glowing. Brenda hurried back and forth in the light, carrying stacks of plates. Tyler wasn’t there.

I edged around to the driver’s side. Cold had stiffened my fingers. I pushed the slim jim down between the glass and its weather seal, searching for the mechanism by feel.

A tiny clink sounded inside the door.

The metal caught. I pulled upward, hard.

The lock snapped free with a blunt clack.

I dropped flat against the pavement. My pulse slammed in my ears as I waited for someone to yell, or for Tyler’s boots to pound down the porch steps.

Nothing came. Only the wind moved.

Carefully, I cracked open the driver’s door and reached inside. My hand found the trunk release low on the floor. I pulled it.

The trunk sprang open with a faint hiss.

I pushed the door closed, crawled back around, and raised the lid inch by inch. A dim amber lamp revealed the narrow compartment.

There were no suitcases inside. No boxes of clothes, no signs of an ordinary move.

A contractor’s wheelbarrow sat in the middle, its basin crusted with dried dirt.

My breath snagged.

Around it lay three sacks of fast-setting cement, a new steel shovel with its tag still attached, a thick roll of black plastic, and a bulky carton of heavy-duty zip ties.

This wasn’t for packing up a house. It was for getting rid of a body.

Nausea climbed my throat. I covered my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick against the car.

They’d killed him, I thought. They were going to bury him.

Then I leaned closer. A bright orange shape showed from beneath the plastic in one corner of the trunk.

My shaking hand reached in and drew out a small translucent pill bottle.

I turned it toward the amber light and read the label. Dad’s name. His essential hypertension prescription.

He had to take those pills every twelve hours. Without them, his blood pressure could rise to a deadly level. He never went anywhere without the bottle.

I shook it. It was full. The pharmacy label showed it had been refilled on Tuesday, the day before he vanished.

If Dad had been dead for three days, why was his fresh medication here? Why had Tyler packed it beside cement?

I dug beneath the plastic sheeting, pushing aside its stiff folds. My fingertips struck paper. I pulled out a manila envelope and tore open the clasp.

Inside were several glossy documents, neatly printed.

The first page was a statement from First National. I scanned the account holder’s name.

Tyler.

At the bottom, the balance made my stomach drop: $214,000. It matched the settlement Dad received after his table saw accident—the money he had promised was protected for Maya’s college.

Brenda had emptied it and placed it in her nineteen-year-old son’s account.

The next paper was a deed. My eyes raced over its lines.

It showed a luxury condominium in Boca Raton, bought outright with cash two months earlier. Brenda was named as its only owner. She had told Dad the Florida agent lost his deposit. Instead, she had used his money to buy the place in secret, preparing to disappear.

Dad must have uncovered the records. He had collected proof, left Marcus a note, hidden his wallet, then gone inside to confront her.

The kitchen door burst open without warning. Someone was coming out while I was still bent over the trunk.