Chapter 4: Highway Ghosts and Hidden Maps

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the hum of the dispatch room. The urgency was a physical weight, pressing down on me. I couldn’t just stand there and let her win.

My decision was instantaneous, driven by pure instinct.

With a sudden, violent yank, I ripped the appraisal document, along with several accompanying pages detailing the fraudulent valuation, from Eleanor’s folder. The heavy paper tore with a sharp sound.

Eleanor gasped, her composure cracking for the first time. “What are you doing, you insolent child?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look at her. I spun on my heel, clutching the papers like a lifeline, and sprinted for the back exit of the dispatch center, the one rarely used.

A security guard, a burly man named Dave, looked up from his crossword puzzle. His eyes widened.

“Lily? Hey! Where are you going?” he called out, his voice thick with confusion.

I didn’t slow. The exit door slammed open, letting in a gust of cold, rain-swept air. The night was a blur of streetlights and pouring rain.

My old sedan was parked a few blocks away, hidden in the shadows of the next building. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped them. The engine sputtered to life, a rough cough against the storm.

I didn’t look back. The dispatch center, Eleanor’s cold stare, Toby’s phantom call—all of it faded into a nightmare in the rearview mirror as I sped onto the highway, the heavy rain blurring the road ahead.

The gas gauge was nearly empty. I cursed under my breath. My focus had been entirely on Toby, on the call, on Eleanor. I hadn’t thought about anything as mundane as fuel.

A neon sign blinked through the downpour: “24-Hour Stop-N-Go.” It was miles from Black Ridge, a lonely outpost. I pulled in, the tires splashing through puddles.

The rain was relentless as I filled the tank, the cold biting at my skin. I tucked the stolen papers inside my jacket, protecting them from the downpour.

Inside the small, brightly lit store, a lone figure stood by the coffee maker, nursing a steaming cup. He looked young, probably in his early twenties, with rain-soaked hair and tired eyes.

He wore a utility vest with several pockets, and in his hand, he held a rolled-up set of blueprints. Surveyor’s maps.

My gaze snagged on the corner of one map peeking from his hand. The topographical lines, the specific symbols. It looked eerily similar to the fraudulent appraisal in my jacket.

He caught my stare. His eyes, a weary shade of blue, flickered to the papers clutched against my chest.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice low, almost sympathetic.

“You could say that,” I replied, my voice hoarse. I moved closer, trying to get a better look at his maps.

He noticed my interest. He unrolled one slightly, revealing more of the detailed lines. “Long hours. Dad’s got me on a rush job.”

“Your dad?” I asked, my heart beginning to thump.

“Barnaby Finch,” he said, a weary sigh escaping him. “Thomas Finch. His son. Pleasure.” He offered a tired smile.

My breath hitched. The very name from the fraudulent document. This was no coincidence.

I knew I had to take a risk. “Those maps… are they for the Danforth estate?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas’s smile vanished. His eyes widened, suddenly alert, wary. He looked down at the map in his hand, then back to me, a sudden flicker of understanding, or perhaps alarm, crossing his face.