Pick up a mop and go clean the latrines, kid, this range isn't for street trash, the range master sneered, shoving fifteen-year-old Malik Holloway away from the custom training rifle.
The next morning, the sting of Aunt Lena’s dinner lingered. I called Maya from the bus stop on my way to school.
“I hate him,” I said, my voice tight with anger. “How could they believe him?”
“They see what they want to see, Malik,” Maya replied, her voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to my frustration. “He’s smooth. But he just gave us more reason to dig deeper.”
She was already at work, her day job as a forensic accounting clerk at a small firm downtown providing her with an invaluable skill set and access to financial databases.
“Did you check that bank account yet?” I asked, thinking of the tiny FGB key.
“Not yet for the safety deposit box itself,” she said. “But I’ve been pulling up statements for anything connected to Dad and Uncle Marcus. His firm, Aegis Tactical, has a few shell companies. Apex Holdings, for example.”
My bus arrived, and I found an empty seat by the window. “What are you looking for?”
“Anything out of place. Any large, unexplained transactions,” she explained, the sounds of a keyboard clacking faintly in the background. “Dad’s trust account had some significant assets. And Marcus has always been greedy.”
Hours later, during lunch in the cafeteria, my phone buzzed with a text from Maya: “CALL ME NOW. FOUND SOMETHING BIG.”
I rushed out, finding an empty hallway. My fingers trembled as I dialed her number.
“What is it?” I asked, my heart pounding.
“I found it, Malik,” she said, her voice tight with a mixture of shock and vindication. “I found a wire transfer. A big one.”
She explained quickly. Using her access to cross-reference transactions flagged for unusual activity or large sums between related parties, she had focused on the period just before Dad’s death.
“Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” she stated, the number hanging heavy in the air. “Moved from Aaron Holloway’s personal trust account, through a third-party intermediary, directly into Apex Holdings.”
Apex Holdings. Marcus’s shell company.
“When?” I pressed, my breath catching in my throat.
“Exactly forty-eight hours before Dad drowned in Lake Lanier,” Maya said, her voice now flat, devoid of emotion, the shock having settled into a cold, hard fact. “The date stamp is clear as day: June 12th, 10:17 AM. Dad’s official date of death was June 14th.”
My mind raced. Forty-eight hours. Two days. The timing was too precise to be a coincidence. Dad hadn’t simply “drowned” in an accident. He had been paid off, or something had been taken from him, just before his life ended.
“He didn’t drown, Maya,” I said, the words a raw whisper. “Marcus… Marcus did something to him.”
“This isn’t proof of murder, Malik,” she cautioned, always the pragmatist. “But it is proof of financial manipulation, of a massive, unexplained transfer of funds directly from Dad to Marcus’s private company just before he died. It’s leverage. And it certainly makes Marcus’s ‘grief-induced delusions’ story look very convenient.”
A cold, hard certainty settled in my gut. This wasn’t just about protecting Dad’s reputation anymore. This was about justice. The $450,000 was a trail of breadcrumbs, leading directly to my uncle.
“We need to get to that safety deposit box, Maya,” I said, looking out the hallway window at the busy school grounds. “Now.”
“Agreed,” she replied. “First thing after work. We need to see what else Dad left us. Because whatever it is, Marcus clearly didn’t want us to find it.”
The phone call ended, but the weight of the new information remained, a heavy, unsettling truth. The amount wasn’t just big; it was a motive, a clear connection that Marcus had gone to great lengths to hide.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours