The rain started falling just as I pulled my car into the empty parking lot. Three years. Three years since my father died on this exact spot, and I was finally ready to face the truth.
I sat in my black Honda, staring at the intersection where Oak Street meets Madison Avenue. The streetlights cast long shadows across the wet pavement. Most people would call this crazy - coming here at midnight on the anniversary of Dad's death. But most people didn't know what I knew.
Charles Laurent didn't die in an accident. He was murdered.
I grabbed my flashlight and camera from the passenger seat. My hands shook a little, but not from fear. I was angry. I had been angry for three years, and tonight that anger would finally serve a purpose.
The rain got heavier as I stepped out of the car. I pulled my hood up and walked toward the crash site. The city had fixed the damaged guardrail years ago, but I knew exactly where Dad's Mercedes had hit. I had studied the police reports until I could recite them word for word.
According to the official story, Dad was driving home from a business dinner when he lost control of his car. The police said he was going too fast. They said the rain made the road slippery. They said it was just a tragic accident.
They were wrong.
I turned on my flashlight and began searching the area. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing patches of grass and concrete. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I knew I would recognize it when I found it.
Dad had been careful his whole life. He never drove fast in the rain. He always wore his seatbelt. He serviced his car every three months like clockwork. Men like my father didn't just lose control and crash into guardrails.
I walked along the edge of the road, following the path his car must have taken. The police photos showed skid marks, but they were in the wrong place. If Dad had really been trying to stop, the marks would have started earlier.
That's when I saw it.
About fifty feet from the crash site, there was a storm drain. Most people would walk right past it without a second glance. But something metallic caught the light from my flashlight. I knelt down and looked closer.
It was a piece of brake line.
My heart started beating faster. I took out my phone and used the flashlight app to get a better look. The metal tube was maybe three inches long, still connected to a small section of rubber hose. But what made my blood run cold was the cut.
It wasn't a clean break from the accident. Someone had sliced through the brake line with a knife or wire cutters. The edges were too smooth, too precise to be accidental damage.
I started taking pictures with my phone. The camera flash lit up the storm drain like lightning. I took shots from every angle, making sure to capture the clean cut in the metal. This was evidence. This was proof that someone had sabotaged Dad's car.
But I needed more.
I searched the area around the storm drain with my flashlight. If there was one piece of brake line, there might be others. Sure enough, I found two more sections about ten feet away. All of them showed the same precise cuts.
Someone had cut Dad's brake lines. When he tried to stop his car that night, nothing happened. He would have pressed the brake pedal and felt it go straight to the floor. By then, it was too late.
I was taking pictures of the second piece when I heard footsteps.
I froze. The sound was coming from behind me, near the road. Slow, deliberate footsteps on wet pavement. Someone was walking toward me.
I turned off my phone's flashlight and crouched lower behind the guardrail. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure whoever was out there could hear it. I held my breath and listened.
The footsteps stopped.
For what felt like an hour but was probably only thirty seconds, everything was silent except for the rain. Then I heard a car door slam. An engine started. Tires squealed as someone drove away fast.
I waited another minute before standing up. When I looked toward the road, it was empty. But there was something white on the ground where the footsteps had stopped.
I walked over and picked it up. It was a folded piece of paper, already getting wet from the rain. I unfolded it and read the message written in black ink:
"Stop digging or you'll end up like your father. This is your only warning."
My hands were shaking now, but not from fear. I was furious. Whoever killed Dad was still out there. They were watching me. And they had just made a huge mistake.
They had threatened me.
I folded the note carefully and put it in my jacket pocket. Then I went back to the storm drain and took more pictures. I photographed every piece of brake line I could find. I documented the exact location where each piece was discovered. I even took pictures of the threatening note.
By the time I was finished, I had over sixty photos on my phone. More than enough evidence to prove that Charles Laurent was murdered. The question now was what to do with that evidence.
I couldn't go to the police. If they had missed this evidence three years ago, it was either because they were incompetent or because someone had paid them to look the other way. Given how much money was involved in Dad's death, I knew which option was more likely.
No, I needed to handle this myself. I needed to find out who killed my father and make them pay.
I walked back to my car, my mind already working on the next steps. Tomorrow, I would start my new job at Blackstone Capital. The investment firm that had swooped in after Dad's death and bought our family company for pennies on the dollar. The company owned by Alexander Blackstone, Dad's former best friend and business partner.
I had spent three years planning this moment. Three years earning my MBA from Harvard Business School. Three years building the perfect resume and getting the perfect recommendation letters. All so I could get hired by the enemy and destroy them from the inside.
The rain was coming down harder now, washing away any traces that I had been here. But it couldn't wash away what I had found. The evidence was safe on my phone, backed up to three different cloud accounts.
I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot. As I drove home through the empty streets of Manhattan, I thought about Dad. About how proud he would be that I was finally ready to fight for justice. About how he had always taught me to stand up for what was right, no matter how dangerous it might be.
The threatening note crinkled in my jacket pocket as I shifted in my seat. Let them try to scare me. Let them try to stop me. They had already taken everything that mattered to me. What more could they do?
I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My blonde hair was wet from the rain, and my blue eyes were bright with determination. I looked like my father - everyone always said so. But I hoped I was stronger than he had been. Strong enough to see this through to the end.
Tomorrow, I would walk into Blackstone Capital as Sophia Laurent, recent Harvard graduate and eager new employee. I would smile and shake hands and pretend to be grateful for the opportunity. I would be polite and professional and completely harmless.
But inside, I would be planning their destruction.
Alexander Blackstone had killed my father for money. He had stolen our family company and left me with nothing but debt and grief. He thought he had won. He thought he was safe.
He was wrong.
I pulled into the parking garage of my small apartment building and turned off the engine. The silence felt heavy after driving through the rain for thirty minutes. I sat there for a moment, letting the reality of what I had discovered sink in.
I had proof. After three years of doubt and suspicion, I finally had concrete evidence that Dad was murdered. But proof wasn't enough. I needed to find out who gave the order. I needed to understand why they killed him. And I needed to make sure they paid for what they had done.
The brake line evidence would be my secret weapon. But I couldn't use it until I had more information. If I revealed what I knew too early, the killers would just destroy any other evidence and disappear. I needed to be patient. I needed to be smart.
I needed to be better than they were.
I took the elevator up to my apartment on the fourteenth floor. It was a small one-bedroom place with a view of the Hudson River. Not much compared to the penthouse I had grown up in, but it was mine. I had paid for it with money I earned working part-time jobs during college. Every piece of furniture, every dish, every book had been bought with my own hard work.
I had refused to accept charity after Dad died. When the Laurent family fortune disappeared, I didn't ask anyone for help. I got student loans and scholarships. I waited tables and tutored other students. I did whatever it took to survive on my own.
Some people called it pride. I called it preparation. I needed to be independent if I was going to take down the people who destroyed my family. I couldn't rely on anyone else. I couldn't trust anyone else.
I hung my wet jacket in the closet and put the threatening note in my desk drawer, right next to copies of all the police reports from Dad's accident. Tomorrow I would scan it and add it to my digital files. Everything had to be documented. Everything had to be preserved.
I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at my kitchen table with my laptop. It was almost 2 AM, but I wasn't tired. I was too excited, too focused to sleep.
I opened a new document and started typing:
"Evidence Log - Day 1
Location: Crash site, Oak Street and Madison Avenue
Time: 11:47 PM - 1:23 AM
Weather: Heavy rain, temperature approximately 45 degrees
Found: Three sections of brake line, approximately 10-15 feet from official crash site. All sections show evidence of deliberate cutting with sharp tool. Cuts are clean and precise, inconsistent with accident damage.
Photos taken: 63 total, all backed up to secure cloud storage.
Additional evidence: Threatening note left by unknown subject. Message suggests ongoing surveillance and warns against further investigation. Handwriting analysis recommended.
Next steps: Begin infiltration of Blackstone Capital. Establish access to Alexander Blackstone and company financial records. Identify connection between Blackstone and brake line sabotage."
I saved the document and closed my laptop. The apartment felt quiet and peaceful, but my mind was racing. In six hours, I would be walking into the enemy's headquarters. I would be shaking hands with the man who ordered my father's death.
I wondered if Alexander Blackstone would recognize me. I had been nineteen when Dad died, still in college, still naive about how cruel the world could be. Now I was twenty-two, with a Harvard MBA and three years of careful planning behind me. I looked older, more sophisticated. More dangerous.
But my eyes were the same. Dad always said I had his eyes - bright blue and stubborn. If Alexander remembered Charles Laurent's eyes, he might see the resemblance.
I hoped he did. I wanted him to know, eventually, exactly who I was and why I was there. But not yet. Not until I was ready to strike.
I finished my tea and went to bed, but sleep didn't come easily. I kept thinking about the brake lines and the threatening note. Someone had been watching the crash site tonight. Someone knew I was investigating.
That meant I was on the right track. It also meant I was in danger.
But I had been in danger since the moment I decided to seek revenge for my father's death. The only difference now was that the enemy knew I was coming.
Good. Let them know. Let them worry. Let them wonder what Charles Laurent's daughter was planning to do to them.
They were about to find out.