Chapter 66 67
A few weeks later.
Elias McLaren's Office – McLaren Cigar Inc.
The once-imposing scent of aged tobacco and imported mahogany could no longer mask the stench of rot creeping into the McLaren name. The grand office, perched high above the city skyline, was dimly lit, the blinds drawn, and the walls echoing with tension.
Elias McLaren paced like a caged animal, jaw clenched, fists tightening with every step. His once-pristine gray suit was wrinkled at the sleeves, his shirt collar loose. The silver Rolex on his wrist felt heavy—like a reminder of everything he was losing.
Two international transactions—one in Los Angeles, the other in Milan—had just been sabotaged. His offshore account, the one no one was supposed to know about, was emptied overnight. Twenty-thousand dollars—gone. Clean. No trail. No recovery.
“Damn it,” he growled, throwing a folder across the room. Papers flew, fluttering like dead birds before hitting the floor.
Who?
How?
He’d paid hackers to protect that account. He’d switched SIMs, changed devices, used dead identities. That money was untouchable. It was supposed to be safe.
“Someone’s targeting us,” he muttered under his breath. “First Venice’s deals fall through, now me?” He stopped pacing, staring out the window with wide, bloodshot eyes.
Then the old fear crept in.
No—not fear. Guilt. Doubt.
Her.
Krystal.
It had been months since that night.
That cursed night in her run-down apartment.
He swore he saw the life drain from her eyes. The sound of the blade tearing flesh still haunted him. The kitchen tiles slick with blood, her trembling hands gripping the counter before collapsing.
He stabbed her.
Over and over.
He made sure she wouldn’t get up.
He left her there—thinking it was done. That she’d disappear into a whisper, like all the others.
But no body turned up. No police reports. No headlines. No suspicious eyes. No closure.
Nothing.
He started thinking… what if she lived?
He shook his head.
“No. That’s impossible. I saw her bleed out.”
Still… the absence of proof was louder than any scream.
Elias rubbed his temple, muttering, “She had the ticket. That damn lottery ticket. It was 1000$. She swallowed it.”
He had torn the apartment apart after, looking for it—ripped pillows, smashed cabinets, lifted floorboards. But nothing.
If she died with it inside her, then it was ruined. Digested. Gone.
But if she lived… if she somehow escaped…
“God,” he whispered, a cold sweat trickling down his back. “What if she’s the one behind all this? But what could she do? It was only 1000$.”
It was ridiculous. Krystal was weak. Meek. Obedient.
But maybe…
Maybe he didn’t know her at all.
A slow dread settled in his gut.
He grabbed his coat. Buttoned it in a rush. He had to go back—to that apartment. To see for himself.
He needed a story. An excuse.
Yes—he’d pretend he was looking for his missing niece. Say he was “worried.” Say she’d gone off the grid. That he feared for her safety. Even fake concern if needed.
Anything to confirm whether she was dead.
Or worse—alive.
Tomas POV –
TK Base
I was sitting by the cracked window, sipping a lukewarm soda while watching Elias McLaren’s sleek black car park across the street like it owned the damn sidewalk. He was on time, too. Typical. Rich men and their punctual guilt.
“Showtime,” I muttered, adjusting the volume on the monitor in front of me.
Three separate camera feeds played across the screen. One from the hallway outside, one angled from Tita Maribel’s ceiling light, and the last one—my favorite—was from Elias’s office, planted weeks ago in the faux bonsai tree on his desk.
That little setup?
Courtesy of my guy, Junie—the scrawny kid who pretended to be a janitor for three weeks, pushing a mop around like he had a PhD in floor wax. Nobody looked twice at janitors. And certainly not at ones who whistled soap operas and wore thick glasses.
Elias never even noticed the extra cleaning staff. Dumb bastard thought he was untouchable.
He wasn’t.
Not anymore.
I turned slightly to glance at Krystal, who sat on the couch beside me, cool as ice, legs crossed, sipping her tea like we weren’t about to psychologically waterboard the man who tried to gut her.
“You ready for this?” I asked her.
She smiled, that crooked little grin she’d picked up somewhere between death and resurrection. “Let’s see what the snake does when he realizes he’s slithering into a cage.”
God, she was scary when she was calm.
Elias stepped out of the car on the feed, slicked-back hair, tan coat, dark shades. Every inch of him screamed “business tycoon”—but to me, he looked like a rat in a trench coat.
“Okay, he’s walking up now,” I said into the comms. “Tita, you in place?”
Tita Maribel’s voice crackled through. “Anak, I’ve been in place since lunch. I even made biko in case he wants snacks.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “No snacks, Tita. We’re not here to host him.”
She just laughed. “Kidding lang. I’m ready.”
We’d swapped out our door number with hers last night. A little screwdriver, a few turns, and voilà—Krystal’s unit was now technically 5B. The one Elias was about to knock on? 5A. Tita’s place.
He reached the door, hesitated like a man unsure if he was about to see a ghost, then knocked twice.
Tita answered in full tita mode—floral duster, rollers in her hair, holding a rosary for good measure.
“Yes?” she blinked innocently.
Elias took off his sunglasses, trying on his best concerned-uncle face. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m looking for my niece—Krystal. Krystal McLaren. She used to live here.”
Tita made a face like she’d just smelled old fish. “Ah, si Krystal? No, she’s not here anymore. Moved out months ago. Poor girl. Left in the middle of the night.”
Elias frowned. “Do you know where she went?”
Tita shook her head, then stepped forward and—just like we rehearsed—brushed off his jacket collar. “Ay, may alikabok. Dusty-dusty ka naman. There,” she said, patting his shoulder sweetly.
The microbug was in.
“That’s it,” I whispered, watching the signal pop onto my screen. “We’re live.”
Krystal sipped her tea. “Let’s see what my dear uncle says when he thinks no one’s listening.”
Tita tilted her head at Elias. “You sure you’re family? You don’t look like you visit often.”
“I’ve been out of the country,” he lied easily. “Just… got worried. Haven’t heard from her. Thought I’d check.”
Tita clicked her tongue. “Too little, too late, hijo. Poor girl. She looked so thin, so pale. Always tired.”
“Did she… leave anything? A note? Anything she might’ve said?”
Tita gave a masterful shrug. “Only that she had to go. Said something about… starting over. Something like that.”
She smiled warmly—too warmly—and added, “Maybe the Lord is giving her a second chance.”
Elias went quiet.
For a moment, I thought he might actually cry.
Then, on the bug, I heard him mutter under his breath as he walked away:
“She can’t be alive. I made sure—”
Krystal’s hand tightened around her mug.
“Gotcha,” I whispered, locking the recording.
Elias stalked back to his car, visibly shaken. He kept glancing at the building in the rearview mirror like he expected Krystal to jump out in a white dress and drag him into hell.
“Let him stew,” I said. “Let him wonder if the walls are whispering.”
Krystal’s voice was soft but sharp: “He’ll know soon enough.”
I leaned back, smiling. Phase one: complete.
And Elias?
He just took the bait.