Chapter 42 Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO~
Agent Torres traced the message to another burner phone. Untraceable, like all the others before it.
"We're analyzing the language," she said. "Trying to determine if this is someone new or someone connected to previous threats."
"Does it matter?" I asked tiredly. "New or old, they want to hurt us. That's all I need to know."
"It matters for the investigation," Agent Torres said. "If this is connected to James's confession, it might be someone mentioned in his files. Someone who doesn't want the truth out there."
That made sense. James's confession had named names, detailed crimes, exposed secrets that powerful people wanted to stay buried.
"So we're being targeted by someone who has something to lose," Declan said.
"Possibly," Agent Torres agreed. "We're looking into everyone mentioned in the files. Seeing who might be threatened by the information going public."
The list was long. James had hurt a lot of people, worked with a lot of criminals, covered for a lot of powerful individuals.
"This could take weeks," Agent Torres admitted.
"We don't have weeks," I said. "Whoever sent that message is planning something now."
But there were no more messages. No threats. No attacks.
Just silence.
And somehow, the silence was worse than the threats.
"They're watching," I told Dr. Chen, a new therapist I'd started seeing after Rachel's betrayal. "I can feel it. Someone out there is watching, waiting."
"Is it possible you're projecting past trauma onto the present situation?" Dr. Chen asked gently. "You've been threatened so many times that you expect it now, even when there's no real danger?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "But the message was real. Someone sent it."
"Yes," Dr. Chen agreed. "But one message doesn't necessarily mean an imminent attack. It could be someone trying to scare you. Someone with no real plan beyond intimidation."
I wanted to believe that. But experience had taught me otherwise.
Two weeks passed with no new developments. The FBI's investigation into James's files had identified several people who might have motive to threaten us, but none of them seemed actively dangerous.
"We're monitoring them all," Agent Torres assured me. "If anyone makes a move, we'll know."
I tried to relax, to trust the process. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming.
Then, on a Wednesday afternoon, everything changed.
I was at work when I got a call from Liam's school.
"Mrs. Harris, there's been an incident," the principal said.
My heart stopped. "What kind of incident? Is Liam okay?"
"He's physically fine," the principal said. "But emotionally shaken. Someone approached him after school today. A woman he didn't recognize. She gave him a message for you."
"What message?" I asked, already calling for Agent Torres.
"She told him to tell you that 'the past remembers everything.' Then she walked away before teachers could stop her."
I was at the school in fifteen minutes. Liam was in the principal's office, looking pale and scared.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he said when he saw me. "I should have screamed or run or—"
"You did nothing wrong," I said firmly, hugging him. "Nothing at all."
"Did you see what the woman looked like?" Agent Torres asked, arriving right behind me.
"She was wearing sunglasses and a hat," Liam said. "But she had dark hair. And she was maybe your age, Mom."
"Would you recognize her if you saw her again?" Agent Torres asked.
"Maybe," Liam said uncertainly. "I don't know."
The school's security cameras had caught the woman on video. But she'd been smart—keeping her head down, face obscured. All we could tell was that she was female, average height, dark hair.
"She could be anyone," Agent Torres said, frustrated.
That night, Declan and I had a serious conversation.
"We need to consider leaving," he said. "Just packing up and going somewhere they can't find us."
"We've run before," I reminded him. "It never works. They always find us."
"So what do we do?" Declan asked. "Just wait for the next attack?"
"We protect the kids," I said. "We increase security, we stay vigilant, and we trust the FBI to find whoever this is."
"And if they don't?" Declan asked.
I didn't have an answer.
The next few days were tense. I barely let the kids out of my sight. Declan hired private security to escort them to and from school. We installed more cameras, more alarms, more safety measures.
"We're living in a fortress," Liam complained. "I can't even go to my friend's house without three security guards following me."
"It's temporary," I promised, hoping that was true.
But the threats kept coming. Not messages anymore, but actions.
Someone slashed the tires on Declan's car.
Someone left a dead bird on our doorstep.
Someone spray-painted "Sins of the father" on our garage door.
"They're escalating," Agent Torres said. "Moving from words to actions."
"But they're not actually attacking us," I observed. "It's all intimidation."
"So far," Agent Torres said grimly. "But intimidation often precedes violence."
Sarah was worried too. "Maybe you should send the kids to stay with Mom and Dad for a while," she suggested. "Just until this person is caught."
"I'm not sending my children away," I said firmly. "We stay together."
But I was starting to question that decision.
Then, three weeks after the first message, I got a letter in the mail.
It was handwritten on expensive paper, with perfect penmanship.
Dear Anita,
You seem confused about why this is happening. Let me clarify.
James Harris's confession may have eased his conscience, but it ruined lives. Important people, powerful people, were named in those files. People who had worked very hard to keep their involvement with James's crimes secret.
By distributing that information, by offering it to his victims, you've threatened those people. You've made it possible for them to be exposed, prosecuted, destroyed.
They're not happy about that.
So here's what's going to happen. You're going to retrieve every copy of James's files. You're going to destroy them. And you're going to publicly state that the information was fabricated, that James was suffering from dementia at the end and made up stories.
If you do this, the harassment stops. You and your family can live in peace.
If you don't, well... you've already lost so many people. How many more can you afford to lose?
You have one week to decide.
- A Concerned Party
I showed the letter to Agent Torres immediately.
"They want us to destroy evidence of crimes," she said. "That's obstruction of justice."
"But if we don't, they'll hurt my family," I said.
"We don't negotiate with terrorists," Agent Torres said firmly. "And that's what this is—terrorism. We find these people and we stop them."
"How?" I asked desperately. "You've been looking for weeks and found nothing."
"Then we smoke them out," Agent Torres said. "We make them think you're complying, set up a meeting, and grab them when they show up."
It was risky. But we didn't have better options.
Over the next few days, I pretended to consider the demand. I made public statements about questioning the validity of James's confession. I suggested he might have been confused near the end.
It felt wrong, dishonoring James's attempt at redemption. But protecting my family mattered more.
On day six, I received another message with instructions.
Bring all copies of the files to Memorial Park, midnight tomorrow. Come alone. Once we verify everything is there, you'll never hear from us again.
"It's obviously a trap," Declan said.
"Of course it is," I agreed. "But it's also our best chance to end this."
Agent Torres set up an elaborate operation. Undercover agents would be everywhere in the park. The moment the person showed up to collect the files, they'd be surrounded.
"You won't actually be alone," Agent Torres promised. "We'll be watching your every move."
The next night, I went to Memorial Park at midnight, carrying a briefcase that supposedly contained the files. In reality, it contained fake documents—realistic looking but worthless.
The real files were safely stored at FBI headquarters.
The park was dark and empty. I walked to the specified bench and sat down, waiting.
My earpiece crackled. "We have eyes on you," Agent Torres said. "Just stay calm."
I waited for ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
No one came.
"Something's wrong," I said quietly.
"Stay in position," Agent Torres ordered. "They might be—"
She was cut off by static.
Then my earpiece went dead.
"Agent Torres?" I said. "Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
I stood up, suddenly very aware that I was alone.
A voice came from behind me.
"Did you really think we'd fall for such an obvious trap?"
I turned around.
A woman stood there. She was wearing all black, her face covered by a mask.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"That's not important," the woman said. "What's important is that you understand the rules. You don't get to expose powerful people and walk away. You don't get to destroy careers and lives without consequences."
"James destroyed those lives," I said. "Not me."
"You chose to share his confession," the woman said. "That made you complicit."
She pulled out a gun.
"Now, here's what's really going to happen. You're going to come with me. Quietly. Or your children will pay the price."
"The FBI is all around us," I said, trying to sound confident.
"No," the woman said. "They're not. We jammed their communications. By the time they figure out what's happening, you'll be long gone."
She gestured with the gun toward a black car parked nearby.
"Move."
I had two choices. Resist and possibly get shot. Or comply and hope the FBI would
find me.
I chose to comply.
As I walked toward the car, I prayed that Agent Torres would realize something was wrong.
That someone would save me.
Because I had a terrible feeling that this time, I might not save myself.