“I was twenty-nine years old,” Amber continued, her voice hardening. “I went straight to the police. A detective sat me down, listened to me for twenty minutes, and politely told me that I was just grieving, hysterical, and confused. Two weeks later, I came home to find that someone had systematically gone through my entire apartment. They tore it down to the studs.” She looked at Max without flinching. “I understood exactly what that meant. I packed a single duffel bag and left the city.”
“Why didn’t you ever contact my mother?” Max asked, his voice rough.
“I did,” Amber replied, her tone remaining completely level. “Once. About five years after it happened. She told me she already knew. But she also said she couldn’t prove a single piece of it, that you were just a small boy, and that she was deathly afraid of what Richard would do to both of you if she made a move.” A sorrowful pause stretched between them. “She also told me that one day, she would make absolutely sure you knew everything. She meant to do it herself, Max. She just ran out of time.”
Max looked down at his own hands resting flat against the wooden table. They were Brent Robertson’s hands, matching the photograph in the storage unit right down to the knuckles.
“Would you testify?” Max asked.
Amber Dean didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. “I have been waiting thirty years to testify.”
Richard officially made his counter-move on Wednesday.
Max was sitting in a corner booth at a downtown diner, finishing a plate of eggs and black coffee, when Wade Gomez slid uninvited into the vinyl seat across from him. Wade was the junior partner at Richard’s prestigious law firm. He was young, excessively polished, and exactly the kind of ambitious attorney who had learned legal ethics as an obstacle course to be navigated rather than a moral foundation to uphold.
Wade smiled thinly and set a thick manila folder squarely in the center of the table.
“Richard wanted me to flag some urgent concerns for you,” Wade said, his voice maintaining an easy, conversational rhythm. “There are some serious medical questions surrounding your mother’s mental competence in her final weeks. If, hypothetically, someone were to suddenly challenge the validity of certain documents she allegedly prepared during that period…”
“Wade,” Max interrupted. He didn’t raise his voice, but the sudden, icy drop in his tone made the younger lawyer snap his mouth shut. “Do you have any idea what I actually do for a living?”
Wade blinked, caught off guard. “You write for some local paper…”
“I have spent eight years anchoring the investigative desk,” Max stated, leaning slightly over the table. “I have three federal indictments and one entirely dissolved state agency on my professional resume.”
Max looked at him with a steady, unblinking stare that made Wade shift uncomfortably in the booth.
“I have a sworn, eyewitness account from someone who was present when Brent Robertson was murdered,” Max listed quietly. “I have a state-certified birth certificate. I have a complete, uninterrupted estate paper trail routed directly through Richard’s own firm. And I have a forensic estate attorney who spent all of last night reviewing the municipal filings.”
Max picked up his coffee cup and took a slow sip, keeping his eyes locked on the junior partner.
“Tell Richard I said thank you for the message,” Max whispered. “It means he’s terrified. And scared men make fatal mistakes.”
Wade stared at the journalist for a long, agonizing second. Then, without saying another word, he slid out of the booth and walked out of the diner, completely abandoning the manila folder on the table.
That afternoon, Max sat in his car and dialed his editor, Tony McClain. Tony was a hard-edged, grizzled veteran of the newsroom who had run the investigative desk for fifteen grueling years and had the bleeding ulcers to prove it.
“I need time off the daily rotation,” Max said the moment Tony answered. “And when I come back, I need the entire front page.”
Tony was quiet for a beat, the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background coming to a halt. “Is this a personal vendetta or public interest?”
“Both,” Max said.
“My absolute favorite combination,” Tony replied, a grim smile evident in his gravelly voice. “Take whatever you need.”