Chapter 8 - The Ghost Flight
Leaving the adjuster standing stunned in the rain, Marcus drove me back to Claire’s car.
We regrouped inside an unassuming motel room on the edge of town. Lily was exhausted; Claire laid her down on the double bed, putting a cartoon on the small TV to distract her while Marcus set up his laptop on the desk.
I plugged the SanDisk flash drive into the port.
The folders inside weren't random family photos. They were labeled with clinical precision: *ACCOUNTS*, *OFFSHORE_BAHAMAS*, *V_LOGISTICS*, and *SETTLEMENT_FINAL*.
I clicked on *ACCOUNTS*.
A spreadsheet opened, detailing over twelve million dollars embezzled from Vance & Sterling construction escrows over the past eighteen months. Julian hadn’t just been struggling with interest rates; he had been siphoning client down payments into shell companies registered in Victoria Sterling’s name.
The firm was on the brink of an audit by the Department of Justice. The audit was scheduled for next Monday.
“He had three days left before the feds raided his office,” I whispered, staring at the screen. “The fire wasn't just about insurance money. The firm’s financial server was kept in our basement server rack. He destroyed the local physical backups.”
“And by killing you,” Claire said from the bedside, her voice shaking with disgust, “he creates an overwhelming tragedy that halts all civil suits and delays the federal audit while he mourns.”
“Except he never intended to mourn,” Marcus cut in. He was staring at his phone, cross-referencing state flight registries. “Nora, I just got a contact at TSA to check the manifest for Flight 418.”
“Did Julian board?”
“A man using Julian Vance’s driver's license and digital ticket boarded the flight,” Marcus said. “Facial recognition at Gate 14 flagged a partial match, but the passenger wore a medical mask and sunglasses. He scanned the pass, walked down the jetway, and sat in seat 12B.”
“If someone else is on that plane... who is it?”
“A decoy,” Marcus said. “Julian paid somebody to fly to Chicago with his phone. The moment that plane touches down, the decoy turns Julian’s phone on, connects to the airport Wi-Fi, and calls his lawyer. Meanwhile, the real Julian is still here in the state.”
“And Victoria is waiting for him,” I added.
I picked up the burner phone Marcus had found in the mud. I opened the message thread with ‘V’.
*‘Bring the passports to the marina.’*
“Which marina?” Claire asked.
I clicked on the *V_LOGISTICS* folder on the flash drive. Inside were slip rental receipts for the Bay Harbor Yacht Club, forty miles south on the sound.
Slip 44. A fifty-foot yacht named *The Alibi*.
The boat was registered to Victoria Sterling.
My phone rang. The screen displayed an incoming call: *Julian (Mobile).*
The plane had landed in Chicago. The decoy was playing his part. Julian was about to deliver his Oscar-winning performance.
I held my hand up to silence the room. I tapped the speaker button.
May you like
“Nora?!” Julian’s voice wailed through the speaker, breathless, hyperventilating, hysterical. “Nora, oh my god, Nora! Bradley just called me—he said our street is blocked off! He said the house is gone! Where are you and Lily?! Are you alive? Please tell me you’re alive!”
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