Chapter 2 - The Warning About Hannah Cole
I spent the night going through everything we knew about Hannah.
There wasn't much.
Thirty-one years old.
Single.
No criminal record.
No unexplained income.
No suspicious travel.
No connection to organized crime.
Exactly the kind of person who should have been invisible to a man like me.
Which meant I couldn't stop thinking about Evan's warning.
At eight the next morning, I went to Bridge House.
I expected a community center.
Instead, I found organized chaos.
Children ran through hallways.
Adults lined up for employment assistance.
Volunteers carried boxes.
Hannah stood in the middle of everything with a clipboard and a phone pressed to her ear.
“No, Mrs. Patel, your daughter can join the afternoon class even if she's late. Tell her I saved her a seat.”
She hung up.
Then saw me.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted coffee.”
She smiled.
“We have terrible coffee.”
“I'll survive.”
She handed me a paper cup.
I took one sip.
She watched me.
“Well?”
“This is awful.”
“I warned you.”
I looked around.
“You run all this?”
“Mostly.”
“Where's your staff?”
“Overworked.”
“You're underfunded.”
“Very.”
“How much do you need?”
She immediately narrowed her eyes.
“No.”
“You haven't heard the number.”
“I know what the number is.”
“How?”
“More than you think.”
Before I could ask, a boy around thirteen ran up.
“Miss Cole!”
“What happened?”
“The computers are gone.”
Hannah's face fell.
“What?”
“All of them.”
She rushed toward the computer room.
I followed.
Ten laptops were missing.
The security camera had been disconnected.
Hannah stared at the empty shelves.
“We don't have insurance for this.”
“I'll replace them.”
She spun around.
“No.”
“Hannah.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you cannot fix every problem by throwing money at it.”
“Usually works.”
“Not here.”
She pulled out her phone.
“We'll figure it out.”
I looked at the shelves again.
Someone had taken exactly ten computers.
Not random theft.
Specific equipment.
My security instincts activated.
I crouched near the door.
Scratches.
Fresh.
Two sets of footprints.
One small.
One large.
“You've had problems before?”
She hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“What kind?”
“Packages disappear.”
“Anything else?”
“Letters.”
I looked at her.
“What kind of letters?”
“Grant paperwork. Donor records. Student information.”
“When did this start?”
“About six months ago.”
That matched the timeline of the theft from my companies.
I asked the obvious question.
“Have you ever met Evan Cross?”
She frowned.
“No.”
“Do you know the Cross family?”
“No.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because someone told me you're dangerous.”
Her expression changed.
“Who?”
“Evan.”
She stared at me.
Then laughed.
“I've never met your friend.”
I believed her.
But something still felt wrong.
That afternoon, I had my team monitor the center from a distance.
At six, a silver SUV stopped outside.
A man got out.
He looked familiar.
One of Evan's drivers.
I followed.
The man entered a small office building.
Inside, he met someone.
I couldn't see the person's face.
Then the exchange happened.
An envelope.
Cash.
A flash drive.
I photographed everything.
The second person turned.
I recognized him.
Evan.
My stomach tightened.
But before I could confront him, another surprise came.
Hannah walked into the building.
I watched from across the street.
She approached Evan.
They spoke for less than two minutes.
Then she left.
I was furious.
When she arrived at Bridge House the next morning, I was waiting.
“You know Evan.”
She stopped.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He donated books.”
“You lied to me.”
“No.”
“You told me you'd never met him.”
“I said I had never met him before our date.”
“You met him afterward.”
“He came here yesterday.”
“For what?”
“To ask me to close Bridge House.”
That stopped me.
“Why?”
“He said this neighborhood is going to be redeveloped.”
I understood instantly.
Evan had been buying properties around Bridge House.
Not for charity.
For a development project.
“Did he threaten you?”
“He didn't have to.”
She looked tired.
“Everyone knows what happens when people refuse powerful men.”
I studied her face.
“You should have told me.”
“I didn't know whether you were one of them.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“What did you decide?”
She looked directly at me.
“I still don't know.”
That night, someone broke into my home.
They didn't steal anything.
They left a photograph on my bed.
Hannah.
Standing outside Bridge House.
Taken three days earlier.
Written across the bottom were six words.
SHE KNOWS WHAT YOU DID TO YOUR BROTHER.
I stared at the photograph.
My brother had died twelve years ago.
At least that was what I'd been told.
Daniel Mercer.
Twenty-six years old.
Dead in an accident.
But there was one problem.
May you like
The photograph showed Hannah standing beside him.
And the date was yesterday.
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