Chapter 3 - The Crash That Wasn't An Accident
For the first time in my life, I considered the possibility that my family's greatest tragedy had been engineered.
I remembered the accident report.
Rain.
Poor visibility.
A commercial truck crossing the center line.
Driver deceased.
Case closed.
That was what we had been told.
But Declan wasn't finished.
“The transport company had insurance irregularities,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Why were you there?”
“I was doing a maintenance audit.”
“You weren't a truck driver?”
“Not then.”
“What were you?”
“Independent logistics investigator.”
Vaughn suddenly interrupted.
“You're making reckless accusations.”
Declan looked at him.
“I'm stating what I remember.”
I turned to Vaughn.
“Leave.”
He blinked.
“Harper—”
“Now.”
When the door closed, I faced Declan.
“You said the accident wasn't random.”
“I said I think it wasn't.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The truck's braking system had been tampered with.”
My breath caught.
“Was that in the report?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone changed it.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
I sat down.
Natalie had spent six years believing she survived by luck.
My mother had spent six years believing the man driving that truck died because he lost control in the rain.
My father had spent six years paying medical bills for the daughter he almost lost.
What if all of that had been built on a lie?
I called Natalie.
She arrived twenty minutes later.
Declan repeated everything.
Natalie went pale.
“Then the man who saved me…”
“Could have saved you from an attack,” Declan said.
She looked at me.
“Why would anyone want to hurt me?”
“Maybe they didn't.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Declan studied us.
“Maybe your sister wasn't the target.”
The room went silent.
“Then who was?”
Declan pulled out an old document.
“Your father.”
I stared.
“My father?”
“He owned the freight consortium at the time.”
I nodded.
“He refused to sell a major terminal.”
“To whom?”
Declan looked at me.
“Pritchard Logistics.”
The name hit like a slap.
Vaughn.
His brother.
Their company had tried to acquire the terminal six years ago.
My father refused.
Three months later, the accident happened.
Eight months later, my father suffered a stroke.
I had always thought the stroke was stress.
Now everything looked different.
I drove to see my father.
He was in a rehabilitation facility outside the city.
His speech remained slow after the stroke.
He looked at me when I entered.
“Dad.”
He smiled faintly.
I sat beside him.
“Do you remember the highway accident?”
His expression changed.
“Nat.”
“Yes.”
He looked away.
“Why?”
I hesitated.
“Was it really an accident?”
His hand began shaking.
He tried to speak.
“V…”
The sound broke apart.
“Dad?”
He pointed toward the drawer beside his bed.
I opened it.
Inside was a small black notebook.
My father's handwriting covered the pages.
Most were business notes.
Until I reached one sentence.
If anything happens to Natalie, do not trust the Pritchards.
My hands went numb.
There was another line beneath it.
Vaughn knows.
I closed the notebook.
My father caught my wrist.
“Harper.”
I looked at him.
“Leave.”
“Leave what?”
“The company.”
“Why?”
His eyes filled with fear.
“Because they already got to me.”
I felt sick.
“Who?”
He shook his head.
Then he whispered:
“They're watching you.”
That night, I barely slept.
Declan stayed outside my apartment building.
I found him in the parking lot at 2:00 a.m.
“You're still here?”
“Someone followed you home.”
My blood ran cold.
“How do you know?”
“Because they parked behind me.”
I stared at the dark street.
“Why are you helping me?”
He shrugged.
“You hired me once.”
“I fired you.”
“Same company.”
“That isn't an answer.”
He looked at me.
“You saved me too.”
“What?”
“My daughter was having an asthma attack the day you fired me.”
I frowned.
“What did I do?”
“You called an ambulance after I left the office.”
“I didn't know.”
“I know.”
He smiled faintly.
“You didn't know.”
That simple sentence broke something open in me.
We stood beneath the streetlight.
“You don't hate me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw you looking at Maya.”
“And?”
“You looked like my wife.”
I froze.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“It's okay.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died three years ago.”
“How?”
“Cancer.”
I lowered my voice.
“Maya?”
“She was six.”
I couldn't imagine it.
Declan looked at the building.
“I promised my wife I'd keep our daughter safe.”
“And you're doing that.”
“I hope so.”
A car turned slowly onto the street.
Declan immediately stepped in front of me.
“Get inside.”
“Declan—”
“Now.”
The car stopped.
A window lowered.
A man stared at us.
Then the vehicle drove away.
Declan's eyes hardened.
“That wasn't random.”
I looked at him.
“Who was it?”
“I don't know.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the message.
His face changed.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward me.
May you like
One sentence.
We know where your daughter is.
