Chapter 7
He needed to see Patrick’s guilt with his own eyes.
For three days, Grant followed Patrick Kent.
He did it the way he had followed warlords, smugglers, and officials who smiled in interviews while hiding what they had done. Not like an angry father. Like a camera operator who knew the subject mattered more than the chase.
Patrick went from his luxury apartment to the station, from the station to his gym, from the gym to a polished bar where young professionals bought cocktails under blue lighting. He drove a BMW that cost too much for a detective’s salary. He tipped well. He laughed easily. He greeted people like a man with nothing to fear.
He never went near the warehouse from Ashley’s photo.
He never met anyone suspicious.
He never looked like a man carrying guilt.
On the fourth night, the pattern changed.
Grant was parked across from Patrick’s apartment building at 11 p.m. when the detective came out in street clothes, checking his phone. He did not take his BMW. He got into an unmarked sedan parked along the curb.
Grant waited eight seconds, then followed.
Patrick drove north out of town, taking back roads, slowing twice, turning once without signaling. He was checking for a tail.
Grant let distance do the work.
He had learned long ago that people look for closeness. They rarely notice patience.
Patrick ended up at a rural farmhouse surrounded by empty winter fields. Three vehicles were already parked near the barn. The house glowed warmly in the dark, kitchen lights on, curtains not fully drawn.
Grant parked a quarter mile away and moved through the trees with his camera bag over one shoulder.
The ground was hard with frost. Bare branches shifted overhead. Somewhere far off, a dog barked and went quiet.
Grant found a line of sight through the kitchen window.
He set up a long lens.
Through the glass, he counted five men.
Patrick.
Two officers from the station.
Two civilians Grant did not recognize.
On the kitchen table were wrapped packages, stacked cash, and sidearms set down with the casual carelessness of men who believed the world had already agreed to look away.
Grant recorded everything.
Faces.
Voices.
Hands counting money.
Patrick laughing.
A discussion about routes and timing and who needed to be paid to keep paperwork clean.
Then one of the civilians said something that turned the cold inside Grant to stone.
“What about that girl?”
The room on the camera screen shifted.
The man’s voice was rough and nervous.
“The one who took the picture. You sure that’s handled?”
Patrick did not even look up at first.
Then he poured himself a drink.
“She went for a swim,” he said.
No one spoke.
Patrick raised the glass slightly.
“It’s handled.”
Another officer asked about the family.
Patrick smiled.
“Devastated dad. Mother in shock. They bought the accident story. We’re clear.”
Grant kept the camera steady.
That was the only reason he did not move.
Patrick leaned against the counter, relaxed and clean and alive.
“Even if they hadn’t,” he said, “there’s nothing to connect me to it. I was careful.”
One of the men muttered that they could not risk more attention.
Patrick lifted his glass.
May you like
“To staying smart,” he said, “and staying rich.”
They drank.
