Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE OLD MINIVAN
I did not close the passenger door.
Wade remained behind the wheel, allowing the engine to idle while heat rolled through the opening.
“What do you mean she died because of our channel?”
“You really don’t know?”
“I remember her name.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The store clerk watched from behind the counter.
I stayed where he could see me.
“Marnie sent complaints,” I said. “There was an accident near Ash Fork. Kyle told me someone falsely connected us to it.”
Wade laughed once.
It contained no humor.
“Your boyfriend put three men in masks on an unlit road and filmed them blocking my daughter’s car.”
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
“She thought they were carjackers. She reversed, clipped a barrier, then drove through a guardrail trying to get away.”
“Kyle said the shoot was canceled because weather damaged the equipment.”
“The weather was clear.”
“Were police involved?”
“They found the wreck. They found tire marks. They found pieces of a plastic prop gun. What they didn’t find was the memory card from Brad’s camera.”
I looked at the photograph on the dashboard.
Marnie wore a college sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back, and one of Wade’s tattooed arms rested across her shoulders.
“When did this happen?”
“Twenty-six months ago.”
I remembered the week.
I had been in Seattle renegotiating a sponsor contract after Kyle promised a roadside-survival series. Brad submitted fuel receipts from northern Arizona. Chase invoiced an emergency edit session. Kyle told me the planned night shoot had failed.
A week later, an email arrived from Wade.
YOUR CREW KILLED MY DAUGHTER.
Kyle responded before I could investigate.
He told me Wade was unstable, had threatened Brad, and blamed the channel because Marnie followed us online.
Then Kyle moved Wade’s messages into a folder labeled harassment.
I allowed him to.
“What proof do you have?” I asked.
Wade’s face hardened.
“Enough to know they were there. Not enough to make a prosecutor file charges.”
“What does that mean?”
“Marnie texted her roommate that she saw the Open Road truck near the bridge. A gas station camera caught Brad buying fuel. A farm camera recorded headlights leaving the service road after the crash.”
“That places them nearby.”
“Brad admitted filming something when I confronted him.”
“You confronted him?”
“I broke his nose.”
Wade said it without pride.
“I spent one night in jail. Brad told police I attacked him because I was obsessed with the channel. After that, every fact I found looked like something an angry father built.”
“You did attack him.”
“Yes.”
The admission made him more credible and less safe at the same time.
“Why were you following us today?”
“The channel posted the route.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I wanted to see where they stopped.”
“Why?”
“Because I believed the raw footage was in the truck.”
I stepped back from the van.
“You were planning to break into it.”
“I was planning to watch.”
“From nine feet away?”
“I said I was angry. I didn’t say I was clever about it.”
The sheriff’s dispatcher called the store and said a deputy could meet us at the clinic. I could wait at the station or accept a ride from Wade after confirming his identity.
The clerk offered to let me remain inside.
I considered it.
Kyle knew where he had abandoned me. He might return. Brad might come back for the footage. Chase might call and apologize.
Part of me still expected the truck to reappear with cold water and a rehearsed speech about engagement.
That expectation was exactly how I had survived the last two years.
Kyle apologized after consequences arrived.
Then he explained why I had caused the situation requiring his apology.
“Take me to the clinic,” I told Wade.
He did not smile.
I photographed the van’s odometer and sent the images from the clerk’s tablet to a new email address I created on the spot. I also wrote Wade’s plate number on a receipt and gave it to the clerk.
Wade watched the precautions without complaint.
Once we entered the highway, I kept the passenger door locked and the window slightly open.
The minivan smelled like motor oil and peppermint.
Wade drove east, away from Los Angeles.
“Why did Kyle know you would be near the station?” I asked.
“He didn’t.”
“You said he knows who you are.”
“He knows I follow public route posts.”
“Then he could have predicted it.”
Wade glanced at me.
“You think they left you for me to find?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
He tapped the steering wheel with his thumb.
“They’ve made videos about me without using my name. Crazy dad. Desert stalker. Washed-up mechanic hunting influencers.”
“I never approved those.”
“You approved the company that published them.”
The words landed because they were true.
Open Road Chaos operated through Mile Marker Media LLC. I owned thirty-eight percent. Kyle owned thirty-eight. Brad owned fourteen. Chase owned ten.
As managing member for finance, I signed annual reports, sponsor agreements, insurance renewals, and platform certifications.
I had told myself I handled the responsible side of the business.
That did not make me separate from what it published.
The clinic was a low stucco building beside a sheriff’s substation. A flag hung motionless above the parking lot.
A deputy named Owen Mercer met us outside.
No relation to anyone in our group; the name was coincidence.
He separated Wade and me for statements.
I described the abandonment, stolen property, and previous disputes over business accounts. I gave Kyle’s full name, the truck’s plate, the channel name, and our intended hotel in Los Angeles.
“Did they say they would return?” Deputy Mercer asked.
“Kyle texted that they would see me soon.”
“Did you consent to being left?”
“No.”
“Have similar pranks occurred?”
“They have left people briefly, but never without a support vehicle.”
“Were those people employees?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes friends.”
“Did they sign releases?”
“Usually.”
The word tasted weak.
“Did you?”
“No.”
The clinic nurse cleaned my feet and found two shallow cuts, early blisters, and mild heat exhaustion. My blood pressure was elevated. I was given water, electrolyte solution, socks, and inexpensive foam sandals from a donation closet.
The medical record mattered.
Not because I was catastrophically injured.
Because Kyle would later say I had laughed.
While I was being examined, Wade gave the deputy a copy of his dash-camera footage.
The video showed the pickup accelerating away, me running, and the truck pausing near the highway before leaving.
It also showed Wade’s minivan entering four minutes later.
The deputy watched twice.
“You were positioned across the road before the truck left,” he told Wade.
“I followed them from Flagstaff.”
“You told her you arrived randomly.”
“I told her I recognized the truck.”
“Why follow them?”
Wade repeated his belief that evidence from Marnie’s death remained inside.
The deputy warned him not to approach the men, trespass, track vehicles, or interfere with an investigation.
Wade’s jaw tightened.
“While they drive away with her identity?”
“Her report is being entered. California authorities can assist with recovery if we identify their location.”
“By then, they’ll wipe everything.”
“Do not make yourself the solution.”
I looked at Wade.
The deputy’s warning applied to me too.
At 3:47 p.m., after charging my phone enough to restart it without the broken SIM, I connected to the clinic Wi-Fi.
Open Road Chaos had posted a new video.
The thumbnail showed me running barefoot behind the pickup.
Large yellow text had been added across the image:
WE ABANDONED KYLE’S GIRLFRIEND IN THE DESERT!
The video had been online for twelve minutes.
It already had 180,000 views.
Kyle appeared in the opening from the driver’s seat.
“Lena agreed to the wildest prank we’ve ever done,” he said. “But she has no idea how long we’re making her wait.”
The clip showed me laughing near the pumps twenty minutes before they left.
Then it cut directly to the truck accelerating.
My scream for my purse was replaced with music.
My terrified face became a reaction shot.
The comments were full of laughter.
SHE’S SO DRAMATIC.
KYLE BETTER MAKE HER WALK.
THIS IS WHY SHE’S THE BORING ONE.
A sponsor account posted three fire emojis.
I watched until my hands stopped shaking.
Then a security alert opened across the screen.
Your Mile Marker Media password has been changed.
A second notification followed.
Recovery email removed.
A third:
Wire transfer pending — $640,000.
The destination account belonged to a company I had never seen.
Three Mile Productions LLC.
Wade read my expression.
“What did they do?”
“They’re moving company money.”
“How?”
“My hardware key is in my purse.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I can try.”
I called our bank’s fraud number through Wi-Fi.
Before the representative answered, another message appeared.
It came from Chase.
May you like
He had sent only one sentence.
BRAD IS GOING BACK FOR YOUR SIM.
