chapter 171

chapter 171
Daniel's POV:
The St. Jude Police Department smelled exactly as I remembered—stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and that particular brand of desperation that seemed to seep from the cinderblock walls.
I'd spent enough time in places like this during my years working for the Cross family to recognize the atmosphere.
I adjusted my cufflinks as the guard led me through the maze of corridors toward the visitation rooms, my footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor with a precision that matched my thoughts.
Maverick had been explicit in his instructions: find the evidence, secure cooperation, and do whatever was necessary to ensure both objectives were achieved.
The guard stopped before a reinforced door and nodded toward the small window set into its surface. "She's in there. You've got thirty minutes."
"That should be sufficient," I replied, though I suspected I wouldn't need half that time.
People like Jessica Walker were remarkably predictable once you understood what motivated them—and I'd spent considerable effort studying her profile during the drive over.
The room beyond was exactly as utilitarian as I'd expected: a metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs positioned on opposite sides, and fluorescent lighting that cast everything in an unflattering greenish hue.
Jessica sat in the far chair, her wrists resting on the table's surface, and the transformation from the photographs in her file was startling. Her skin had taken on a sallow, almost waxy quality, and her hair hung limp around her face in strands that hadn't seen proper care in days.
The vibrant, calculating young woman who had orchestrated a murder attempt had been reduced to something hollow and defeated.
She didn't look up when I entered. Didn't acknowledge the guard's departure or the soft click of the door sealing behind me.
Her gaze remained fixed on some point on the table's surface, her expression as empty as if someone had reached inside and scooped out everything that had once made her human.
"Miss Walker." I settled into the chair across from her and placed my hands flat on the table, allowing the silence to stretch between us for a measured moment. "My name is Daniel Hoge. I'm here on behalf of Maverick Cross."
The name should have provoked some reaction—fear, perhaps, or defiance, or even the desperate hope of someone who recognized that their only lifeline had finally arrived.
Instead, Jessica remained motionless, her shoulders curved inward like wilted flower petals, and the only indication that she'd heard me at all was a slight tension in her jaw.
I continued without waiting for acknowledgment. "Mr. Cross is aware that your actions were not entirely of your own design. He understands that you were... influenced by certain parties who exploited your vulnerabilities and manipulated you into making decisions that have now placed you in an extraordinarily difficult position."
Still nothing. Her lashes didn't even flutter.
"However," I said, leaning forward slightly, "Mr. Cross is prepared to offer assistance. Legal assistance, specifically—a team of attorneys whose track record in cases like yours is unparalleled. With their representation, you could be looking at a significantly shorter period of incarceration, possibly even probation with psychological treatment requirements."
I watched her face carefully as I spoke, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift in her posture.
"All we require in exchange," I continued, "is evidence. The proof that someone else bears responsibility for setting these events in motion. Provide that, along with your testimony, and Mr. Cross will personally ensure that your legal representation is the finest money can buy."
There. A tremor in her eyelashes, so brief that anyone without my training might have missed it entirely.
She had evidence. I was certain of it now.
But when she finally spoke, her voice emerged flat and lifeless, scraped clean of any emotion. "There's nothing to provide. The car accident was my idea. I planned it alone, executed it alone, and I'm prepared to accept the consequences alone."
"Miss Walker." I kept my tone measured, almost gentle. "I understand your reluctance. Truly, I do. But I should mention that Mr. Cross is fully prepared to guarantee your safety—and the safety of your family—should you choose to cooperate with us."
Jessica's head lifted slowly, her eyes meeting mine for the first time since I'd entered the room.
They were bloodshot and rimmed with shadows, but beneath the exhaustion, I could see the desperate calculation of someone weighing impossible options.
I allowed a measured smile to curve my lips. "So. Have you reconsidered your position?"
"Why should I trust you?" The question emerged sharp and suspicious, her survival instincts finally overriding her fear-induced paralysis. "How do I know this isn't just another manipulation? Another trap designed to make things worse?"
"That's a fair question," I acknowledged. "And I'll give you an honest answer, Miss Walker, because I believe you deserve to understand exactly what you're dealing with."
I paused, allowing the silence to build. "Mr. Cross has authorized me to inform you that if you can be threatened by Sebastian Thorne, then we are equally capable of applying... pressure. Should you refuse to cooperate, we would be forced to explore alternative methods of securing your compliance."
I watched her face drain of what little color remained.
"Your mother, for instance," I continued, my tone remaining conversational despite the content of my words.
"You—" Jessica's voice cracked. "You wouldn't."
"I'll give you three minutes to consider your options," I said mildly.
The silence that followed was thick enough to taste.
Jessica's breathing had become rapid and shallow, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of barely-contained panic. Her fingers clenched and unclenched against the table's surface, and I could practically see the war being waged behind her eyes.
"There's a backup," she whispered finally, her voice barely audible. "A recording. Sebastian—he made promises. Said things that could implicate him. I kept a copy."
"Where?"
"My laptop." She swallowed hard. "At my apartment. There's an encrypted folder on the desktop. The password is 'Phoenix2024'—capital P, no spaces. The audio file should be inside."
"Thank you for your cooperation," I said, rising from my chair smoothly and buttoning my jacket.
Her eyes had taken on a desperate, pleading quality. "You'll protect my mother? You promise?"
"Mr. Cross keeps his word," I said quietly.
---
Jessica's apartment was exactly what I'd expected: a studio unit in a mid-range building, decorated with the accumulated detritus of a life that had once held promise.
Fashion magazines were stacked on a coffee table. Photographs of happier times pinned to a corkboard. A wilting plant on the windowsill that no one had remembered to water.
The laptop sat on her desk, a silver MacBook with a cracked corner that suggested it had been dropped at some point. I powered it on, entered the password she'd provided, and navigated to the desktop.
The encrypted folder was there, exactly where she'd said it would be.
I entered the secondary password and watched the folder icon transform as access was granted.
This folder is empty.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, then began systematically checking every other location on the device. The downloads folder. The documents directory. The hidden files that most users didn't know existed. The recently deleted items. The cloud backup synchronization logs.
Nothing.
The audio file—the evidence that would have definitively linked Sebastian Thorne to the attempted murder of Maverick Cross—had been thoroughly and professionally erased.
Whoever had accessed this laptop had known exactly what they were looking for and had left no trace of their intrusion beyond the conspicuous absence of the file itself.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Maverick's private line.
"The folder was empty," I reported without preamble. "Every potential backup location had been scrubbed clean. "
A brief silence on the other end, then Maverick's voice, tight with controlled fury: "And the other matter? Mr. Brown has been released from custody, hasn't he? Any progress on the case from two years ago—Noah White's drug incident?"
"Nothing concrete yet," I admitted. "Sebastian covered his tracks with exceptional care. No communication records, no financial trails, no witnesses willing to speak."
"Keep digging." The command was cold, absolute. "I don't believe he left no cracks."
"Understood."
The line went dead.