Chapter 6 - The Unraveling Lie
The private airstrip outside Little River was nothing more than an asphalt strip bordered by towering Douglas firs.
The helicopter’s turbine whined down as Steven Daniels stepped onto the tarmac.
He wore a dark slate overcoat over an open-collared charcoal shirt. He was thinner than he had been six months ago; the sharp edges of his cheekbones were more pronounced, his graying temples more visible. But the predatory, boardroom intensity had been replaced by something far more dangerous: a man with singular, desperate focus.
Behind him stepped Mark, holding an encrypted tablet.
“Confirm it again,” Steven said, his eyes scanning the tree line.
Mark swiped through a series of documents on the screen. “Three weeks ago, an architectural restoration permit was filed with the Mendocino County Planning Commission for the Chapman Pavilion. The lead designer was listed as *A. Vance*. The regional preservation board praised the hand-drawn blueprints in their monthly bulletin.”
Mark brought up a high-resolution scan of the blueprint sheet. In the lower right corner, within the title block, was an architectural stamp. Inside the border was a tiny, hand-drawn swallow in mid-flight—Angela’s private signature since her days in graduate school.
Steven stared at the tiny bird on the screen. His breath hitched in his throat.
“It’s her,” Steven whispered.
“There’s more, Mr. Daniels,” Mark continued cautiously. “We ran a soft trace through the regional prenatal clinic in Fort Bragg. A patient registered as Angela Vance had an ultrasound appointment yesterday morning at 10:00 AM.”
Steven closed his eyes. The words slammed into him like a physical blow.
*Yesterday morning. Ultrasound.*
The memory of the journal entry returned with suffocating force: *Healthy heartbeat. 140 beats per minute.*
His child was alive. She was seven months pregnant, surviving alone in a foggy coastal outpost while he had been tearing Chicago apart with subpoenas and private investigators.
“Did you inform the local authorities?” Steven asked, his voice dead level.
“No, sir. As you instructed, no police, no process servers, no media. Sloane Mercer’s publicist has been calling your office all morning trying to track your flight plan, but we filed a false manifest to Seattle.”
“If Sloane Mercer calls my office again, have legal serve the restraining order,” Steven said coldly. “Where is Angela right now?”
“At the construction site. The Chapman Headland Pavilion.”
Steven turned toward the black SUV waiting at the edge of the hangar. “Give me the keys.”
“Sir, let me come with you—”
May you like
“No,” Steven said, taking the key fob from Mark’s hand. “I drove her away with crowds, noise, and lies. I am not going to corner her with an entourage. I go alone.”
***
