Chapter 7 - Beneath Harbor Point
Police reached Harbor Point before sunrise.
Claire insisted on going.
Ortiz refused.
“You were in a coffin forty-eight hours ago.”
“And my husband is still trying to steal my company.”
“He also has a gun.”
“So do your officers.”
Ortiz stared at her.
Claire did not blink.
Twenty minutes later, they were driving toward the property.
Ethan remained under police protection at Nora’s house.
Harbor Point contained three abandoned shipping warehouses.
The east building had been closed for almost a decade.
Michael Parker’s note sent investigators beneath it.
They expected money.
Documents.
Maybe contraband.
Instead, they found a room.
Concrete walls.
No windows.
A steel door.
Inside were shelves containing dozens of file boxes.
Each box carried a person’s name.
Financial records.
Medical histories.
Copies of wills.
Insurance policies.
Property deeds.
Personal weaknesses.
Debts.
Affairs.
Addictions.
Richard had not merely been stealing.
He had been collecting leverage.
Claire found her own box.
Inside were years of surveillance photographs.
Her leaving Ethan’s school.
Her visiting Michael’s grave marker.
Her meeting Nora.
Her bedroom window.
Her hospital records.
Her signature copied hundreds of times.
Claire turned away.
Ortiz opened another box.
Michael Parker.
Photographs from the weeks before his death.
Phone records.
A marina map.
Weather forecasts.
And one typed page.
M.P. – 9/21.
Boat prepared.
Fuel line compromised.
Emergency beacon removed.
Storm probability 71%.
Claire stopped breathing.
Michael’s death had been planned.
Not suspected.
Not implied.
Planned.
She gripped the table until her knuckles whitened.
Ortiz gently took the page.
“We have him.”
Claire shook her head.
“We have paper.”
“Paper can put a man away for life.”
“Not if he says someone else wrote it.”
Ortiz knew she was right.
Then an officer called from the next room.
“Detective.”
They found a hidden safe.
Inside were passports.
Cash.
Several prepaid phones.
And a hard drive.
One folder was labeled CONTINGENCY.
Video files.
The first showed Charles Wynn entering a hotel with a woman who wasn’t his wife.
Blackmail.
The second showed Dr. Kessler accepting an envelope.
The third showed Paul Danner falsifying documents.
Then Claire saw herself.
Video recorded in her own bedroom.
Richard stood beside the bed while she slept.
He held a syringe.
The date was three weeks earlier.
Claire watched him test the needle against his finger.
Then the clip ended.
The next file was dated the night of her supposed death.
Claire pressed play.
Richard stood beside her unconscious body.
Dr. Kessler checked her pulse.
“She’ll appear dead for at least six hours.”
Richard asked:
“Can she wake?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“Depends on metabolism.”
Richard looked toward the camera.
“Then Danner needs to keep her sedated until the burial.”
Claire covered her mouth.
Kessler spoke again.
“You said she wouldn’t actually go underground.”
Richard smiled.
“That’s not your concern.”
No one in the room moved.
Ortiz whispered:
“That’s conspiracy to commit murder.”
Claire stared at Richard’s face on the screen.
There was no anger.
No desperation.
Only calculation.
Then the building lights went out.
An explosion shook the warehouse.
“DOWN!”
Glass shattered.
Smoke poured through the corridor.
Ortiz grabbed Claire.
Another blast hit the loading dock.
Someone had triggered explosives remotely.
The room began collapsing.
Officers carried the hard drive out.
Claire stumbled through dust and debris.
Outside, flames engulfed the east warehouse.
A phone rang inside the evidence bag.
One of Richard’s prepaid phones.
Ortiz answered.
Richard’s voice came through.
“Claire?”
Ortiz said nothing.
Richard laughed softly.
“I know you’re there.”
Claire took the phone.
“You tried to bury me alive.”
“You were supposed to stay asleep.”
“You killed Michael.”
A pause.
Then Richard said:
“Michael should have stopped digging.”
Claire’s face went still.
“You just confessed.”
“No.”
His voice remained calm.
“I said he should have stopped digging.”
Claire looked at Ortiz.
The call was being recorded.
Richard continued.
“Come home, Claire.”
“I don’t have a home with you.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
Claire froze.
Richard whispered:
“I was talking about Ethan.”
The line went dead.
Claire turned toward Ortiz.
“My son.”
Ortiz was already calling Nora.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Then Claire’s phone vibrated.
A photograph arrived.
Nora’s front door.
Open.
A police cruiser parked outside.
Empty.
Beneath the photograph were six words.
May you like
THREE KNOCKS OPENED THE FIRST DOOR.
NOW LET’S OPEN THE SECOND.
