I looked at the photos on her phone. Bank transfers. Shell companies. It was a massive money-laundering scheme. Lucille Sterling wasn’t just a bigot; she was a criminal.
My phone vibrated. It was a text from my older brother, Marcus.
I’m coming. Bringing help.
Marcus was ex-military, just like our grandfather. He worked private security now. I had texted him the moment we left the woods.
“Mom,” Olivia said, her eyes wide with sudden realization. “My car… Gavin insisted on servicing your Chevy three months ago. The tracker.”
I ran outside. I slid under the chassis of my truck. There it was—a small black box blinking red attached to the frame. They knew where we were.
I ripped it off and threw it onto a stump in the yard. Let them think we’re here.
I went back inside and went to the old dresser. From the bottom drawer, I pulled out a worn leather holster containing Grandpa’s service pistol. I checked the safety.
“Do you remember how to use that?” Olivia asked weakly.
“Grandpa taught me,” I said. “And I never forget a lesson.”
Marcus arrived an hour later. He looked at Olivia, his jaw tightening until a muscle jumped in his cheek.
“We can’t stay here,” he said immediately. “If they have a tracker, they have a hit squad. We need to go off-grid.”
“Where?”
