Chapter 3 - The Safehouse on the Lake
The rain began to fall in heavy, blinding sheets as David’s black Mercedes pulled off the highway and onto the narrow, gravel access road winding through the dense pine forests of Lake George.
I sat in the front passenger seat, a tight compression wrap bound firmly around my abdomen under my heavy wool coat to keep my incision stable. Every bump in the gravel road sent a sharp blade of pain shooting through my core, but I didn't make a sound. My eyes remained fixed on the GPS screen mounted on the dashboard.
“Are you sure about this location, Natalie?” David asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel as the tires splashed through deep muddy ruts. “This property isn't listed under Lauren’s name or her brother’s company.”
“It’s listed under Blue Heron Holdings,” I said, reading from the corporate registration file on my phone. “It was registered five years ago by Eric’s college roommate. Eric took me up here once when we were first dating. He told me it was a tax shelter owned by an old investor, but I found a key to the boat house in his desk drawer six months ago.”
I held up the heavy brass key.
“He thought I was stupid, David,” I whispered, looking out at the dark trees whipping past in the storm. “He thought because I liked painting and taking care of our house, I didn't know how his mind worked. He built this entire trap because he thought I was weak.”
Ten minutes later, the dark outline of a massive, stone-and-timber lake house appeared through the rain.
Parked in the curving driveway, partially hidden under a green tarp near the garage, was the black Ford Explorer.
David stopped the Mercedes two hundred yards back down the driveway, hiding the car behind a dense thicket of spruce trees. He pulled a silver snub-nosed revolver from his shoulder holster and checked the cylinder.
“We call the State Police now, Natalie,” David said, reaching for his phone. “We let them execute the warrant.”
“If the State Police turn their sirens on three miles down the road, she’ll wipe those hard drives on a localized server magnet before they clear the front gate,” I replied, unbuckling my seatbelt. “She has an automated wiping routine set up on her laptop. Eric mentioned it once when he was bragging about his company’s data security.”
“Natalie, you are four days out from major abdominal surgery!” David hissed, grabbing my sleeve. “You cannot go in there!”
“I’m not going in there to fight her, David,” I said, turning to look at him with a cold, clear stare that made the veteran attorney freeze. “I’m going in there to make sure she stays at that laptop until the troopers arrive.”
I opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing rain.
The cold air hit my face like a slap, clearing away the lingering fog of hospital pain medication. I pulled my coat tighter around my waist, leaned slightly forward to relieve the tension on my stitches, and walked steadily toward the stone steps of the lake house.
The front door was unlocked.
I pushed it open silently, stepping into a grand, vaulted living room lined with dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey, stormy lake, and a massive stone fireplace that lay dark and cold.
From a side office down the hall, the rhythmic, frantic clicking of a mechanical keyboard cut through the sound of the falling rain.
I walked down the hall, my leather boots making no sound on the thick oriental runners.
I stopped in the doorway of the office.
Lauren Hayes was sitting at a glass desk, three laptop screens glowing brightly in front of her face, two external black hard drives plugged into a silver hub beside her hand. She was still wearing her pale blue scrubs, her blonde hair pulled back into a messy, frantic bun, sweat glistening on her forehead.
“You forgot to lock the front door, Lauren,” I said quietly.
Lauren jumped so violently she knocked her chair backward into the bookshelf. She spun around, her eyes widening in absolute, horrified shock as she saw me standing in the doorway.
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“You...” she gasped, her hands flying to her chest. “How... how did you find this place?!”
“Eric has terrible taste in hiding spots,” I said, taking two slow steps into the room and leaning against the edge of a heavy leather armchair for support. “And he’s an even worse liar.”
