Chapter 48 Masked Messenger
\-Lucien-
The office was empty, but I couldn’t look away from the screens.
I replayed the protest video again and again, listening to every shout, studying every face magnified until it felt like they were right in front of me.
And then I froze. I leaned closer, eyes scanning, because it was the first time I’d noticed this—Jackson’s lip, split, visibly bleeding before he dodged the punch.
I paused, forcing myself to be certain.
He dodged the punch, yes—but the split was already there. It was there before he ran into the scene.
So he lied. I made a mental note.
Why?
I didn’t get a chance to dwell on it before he walked into my office, his presence filling the space.
“What are you doing? I’d assumed you’d be gone by now,” he said.
I wanted to bring up the video, to demand the truth. I didn’t. Not after the discussion we had had in the afternoon. The one where I had promised not to dig any further.
If I questioned him, I’d be digging. So I didn’t.
“I’m reviewing some construction details. I want to make sure we have everything right before the ground-breaking commences.”
“Right,” He nodded. “Meanwhile, you should know the contractor has the foundation crew scheduled for next week, the heavy equipment is being staged on-site over the weekend, and the utility hookups are set to begin once the inspections are complete. Everything’s ready when we give the official go-ahead.”
“Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You too. Stay safe Lucien.”
I watched him leave, his smooth lie lingering on my mind.
Is he hiding something? Perhaps he’d found something? Was that the reason he’d asked me to stop digging—?
“He probably had his reasons,” I loudly said, shutting down every thought.
After that, I gathered my things and left the office heading down to the underground parking lot.
This was routine for me, but something felt odd. Like there was something or someone lurking in the shadows.
I sensed it before I saw it, a lingering presence.
My hand tightened around the strap of my bag.
I turned sharply.
A hooded figure froze a few away, his mask concealing every feature. From the form and height, I could tell it was a male.
For a moment, we just stared. No words. No warning, just a subtle shift in his stance.
Then he moved first. Instinct took over, I dropped the bag and lunged. He dodged, I spun, sending a blow to his face. I missed by milliseconds.
My brows furrowed in confusion. He wasn’t fighting back, he just avoided it.
Once again, I reached for him, aiming at his face, but he flinched, hands coming up. “Wait—”
Too late.
My fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled back, dropping to the floor. I grabbed him by his jacket, lifting and shoving him against a pillar.
He threw his hands up in the air.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” I growled.
He pointed to his jacket, gesturing for me to reach inside of it. My eyes narrowed at his, but I could see the fear in his small ones. He seemed well-built and agile, but whatever this was, was certainly not his forte.
I glanced down at his jacket, and carefully slipped out a brown envelope. One with my name on it.
“What is this?” I demanded.
“I heard you’re looking for your mother. This will help you.”
My heart skipped. I released him slowly.
He adjusted his hood, shaken. “Next time,” he muttered, wiping blood from his lip, “let me finish a sentence.”
Before I could say anything else, he was gone, disappearing between the parked cars like he never was.
My knuckles ached as I flexed them. I had almost broken his jaw for nothing.
Once again, I looked down at the envelope. There was no return address. Nothing to tell what the hell was inside.
I quietly picked my bag off the floor, still cautious of my surroundings, then walked off to my car.
I wanted to wait till I got home before I opened it, but my curiosity got the best of me.
I needed to see. I needed to know.
Without a second thought, I grabbed the envelope and quickly opened it.
A folder slid out first, a blank cover with just a confidential stamp.
My pulse racing, anxiety and excitement coursing through me at once.
When I opened it, a cold shiver ran down my spine.
It was all dirt, dirt and more dirt on James Ashford.
Case one: The Line C-Explosion
The first file read.
I flipped through the newspaper cut-outs, internal documentation, emails, minutes, settlement, confidential photos from the site.
Apparently, James Ashford had covered up an explosion that happened almost 25 years ago.
It was cruel. Vile even.
There was proof of embezzlement, abuse of power, and several occasions of negligence.
Whoever that man was, he had spent years crafting the perfect tool to tear James Ashford limb by limb.
But why did he give this up? Why now? I wondered, slowly flipping through the file.
Then I stumbled on something else.
Several scanned records from different asylums all listed Ivana Easton as being under the guardianship of Vanessa Ashford.
My brows furrowed in confusion until I read the handwritten annotation.
.
Ivana Easton listed here, yet the real Ivana died decades ago. Could this be Camille Ashford? Did the Ashfords fake her death? Compare photos.
In another file was a grainy image of a woman leaving the asylum, placed next to an old photo of Camille Ashford. There were similarities, but nothing conclusive.
Then I saw it, a photo of a teenage Vanessa standing in front of an orphanage, holding an award. My father was beside her. My
stomach sank. He had been linked to Vanessa for far longer than I’d realized.
I reached for my phone to call Jackson, but before I could dial, a strange call came in. No ID.
Without thinking, I answered.
“You can’t trust anyone. Not even Jackson. No one.”
My heart froze. I knew that voice. I’d just heard it.
I sprung out of my car and scanned the lot. There was no one.
“What the hell? Are you watching me?” I seethed, my chest tightening. Something about this felt wrong, every instinct screamed danger.
“It’s time someone pointed you in the right direction,” he replied coolly. “Tomorrow… look forward to my big surprise.”
With that, he hung up.
I tried calling back, but the same message cut through the line: You’re not allowed to call this number.
“Fuck!”
My fingers raked through my hair. My pulse thundered in my ears like I had been cornered.
I slid back into the car, but the nagging feeling of being watched clung to me. I tried to shake it, but couldn’t. I turned the engine over and drove off as fast as I dared.
The “right direction”? My mind reeled. I wasn’t allowed to tell a soul. I had to wait… until tomorrow.
But the dread—the gut-twisting, hollow dread refused to leave.