Chapter 9 - The Frost on the Oak
The morning sun didn't bring warmth. A late October frost had settled over the valley, painting the dead lawn silver and turning the fallen oak leaves brittle as glass.
At seven-thirty in the morning, my phone buzzed against the nightstand. It was a local number I didn't recognize.
"David Vance?" a sharp, gravelly voice asked when I answered.
"Speaking."
"This is Detective Miller, County Sheriff's Department. I'm calling regarding your sister-in-law, Courtney Vance."
I sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from my face. "Did she post bail?"
"No," Miller said. "Her bail was revoked an hour ago."
"Revoked? Why?"
"Because when we ran the serial numbers on that pawn ticket you provided in court yesterday, it pinged an active state-level task force investigation into an organized retail theft and fencing ring operating out of the tri-county area. It turns out Mrs. Vance wasn't just pawning family jewelry. She was operating a drop-ship address for a boutique return scam that has hit three regional department store chains for over two hundred thousand dollars over the last eighteen months."
I held the phone tight against my ear, listening to the background chatter of a busy police precinct.
"We executed a search warrant on her residence forty minutes ago," Miller continued. "Her husband—your brother, Kevin—was cooperative. He handed over an encrypted laptop and pointed our search team toward three storage bins in the garage that were filled with high-end merchandise with altered inventory tags."
"I see," I managed to say.
"Mr. Vance, Judge Ellingsson forwarded the transcript of yesterday's small claims proceeding to our office, along with the insurance fraud documentation you presented," Detective Miller said. "We need you to come down to the county courthouse at eleven o'clock. The district attorney wants to take a formal deposition from you regarding the fire pit incident."
"Am I being charged for burning the purse?"
A brief, dry chuckle came through the receiver. "Mr. Vance, the legal value of that purse was assessed by our fraud unit at fourteen dollars and fifty cents. The state doesn't prosecute property damage under fifty dollars, especially when the object was being used as an instrument to conceal stolen felony-grade evidence. You’re not a suspect, David. You’re our star witness."
After I hung up, I walked down the hall to Maisie's room.
She was sitting on her bed, fully dressed in her school clothes, carefully tying the laces of her sneakers. On her nightstand sat a thick slice of the strawberry cake we had baked the night before, half-eaten on a small paper plate.
"Ready for school, bug?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
She looked up and smiled—a genuine, unburdened smile that reached all the way to her eyes for the first time in six months.
"Daddy, can I take a piece of cake to school for show-and-tell?"
"Show-and-tell is for toys, Maisie," I said, smiling back.
May you like
"No," she insisted, shaking her head solemnly. "Miss Adams said we could bring something that made us feel proud. And I baked this cake with you and Uncle Kevin. And nobody knocked it down."
My throat tightened. "Yeah, Maisie. You can definitely take a piece of cake."
