Chapter 4

The next morning, I walked out of Lily's apartment with the USB drive clutched in my hand. The grief had been burned away by a cold, hard resolve. I had the truth. Now, I just needed someone to listen.

I walked into the local police precinct, the same one where the chief had shaken hands with Brandon Thorne's father. I bypassed the front desk and went straight to the detective's bureau.

"I have new evidence in the Lily Miller case," I said, my voice flat and steady.

A detective I hadn't seen before, a heavy-set man with a bored expression, looked up from his crossword puzzle. "That case is closed, pal."

"It's about to be reopened," I said, holding up the USB drive. "This is a recording. It proves Brandon Thorne's guilt and it proves prosecutorial misconduct and evidence tampering by Sarah Jenkins."

The detective's eyes flickered with something-not interest, but something else. Caution. He took the drive from my hand and walked into an office at the back. I waited, a flicker of hope trying to push through the anger. Maybe this guy was clean. Maybe he would do the right thing.

He came back a few minutes later, the USB drive in his hand. He tossed it onto the desk in front of me.

"Nice try," he sneered. "Whatever you cooked up on this thing, it's inadmissible. Probably faked it yourself. You're lucky we don't charge you with fabricating evidence."

"You didn't even listen to it."

"Don't have to," he said, leaning back in his chair. "The case is closed. Now get out of here before I arrest you for trespassing."

"You're protecting him," I said, the realization dawning on me. "You're all on his payroll."

The detective' s face hardened. "You've got a big mouth for a guy who just lost a defamation suit." He stood up and pointed a thick finger at me. "I'm telling you for the last time. Leave."

I didn't move. I saw the rage flash in his eyes. He jerked his head toward a hallway. "Take a walk with me."

He led me down a corridor, away from the main office, toward a back door. We passed under a security camera, and as soon as we were out of its line of sight, in a blind spot, he spun around and shoved me hard against the wall.

Another officer appeared from a doorway, blocking my exit.

"You don't learn, do you?" the first detective grunted, and then his fist slammed into my stomach. The air rushed out of my lungs. Before I could recover, the second officer hit me from the side, a hard blow to the ribs. They worked me over with professional efficiency, hitting me where the bruises wouldn't show easily.

I fell to my knees, gasping for breath. The first detective leaned down, his face close to mine, his breath smelling of stale coffee.

"Let me explain something to you, Mr. Miller," he said, his voice a low growl. "Brandon Thorne's father owns this city. He owns the mayor, he owns the judges, and he owns this department. You are nothing. You are a bug. If you keep making noise, we will squash you. Understand?"

They dragged me to my feet and shoved me out the back door into a grimy alley. I collapsed against a dumpster, my body screaming in protest. The world seemed to tilt and spin, a vortex of pain and despair. They hadn't just beaten me, they had beaten the hope out of me. The system wasn't just broken, it was a weapon pointed directly at me.

Somehow, I got to my feet. Every step was agony, but I had one last place to go. I had to see her. I had to see the face of this betrayal.

I took a cab to the District Attorney's office, a gleaming tower of glass and steel that mocked the very idea of justice. I didn't go in. I stood across the street, in the shadows of another building, and waited.

An hour later, I saw them. Sarah and Brandon, walking out of the building, laughing together. His arm was draped casually over her shoulders. They stopped by the curb, waiting for his car. He leaned in and kissed her, a long, possessive kiss right there on the public sidewalk. She kissed him back, her hands moving up to cup his face.

Then he said something, and they both laughed. The sound carried across the street, clear and sharp. They were laughing about Lily. I knew it. They were laughing at her pain, at my grief. They were celebrating their victory on her grave.

The conversation I had overheard on the recording slammed back into my mind. You know how to play the game. That's why I like you. This wasn't new. This had been going on for a long time, right under my nose. My marriage, my life, had been a lie.

A white-hot rage, purer and more intense than anything I had ever felt, surged through me. I wanted to run across the street. I wanted to tear them apart with my bare hands.

But then, Lily's last words from her letter echoed in my head. He scares me, Ethan. He really scares me. Fear. She had been afraid. And rage wouldn't honor her memory. Rage was their weapon, not mine. I had to be smarter. I had to be stronger.

My mind raced, searching for an escape, for another path. The local police were corrupt. The DA's office was corrupt. The courts were corrupt. The entire civilian system was compromised.

But there was another system. A system I had served. A system built on honor, on duty, on a code that meant something.

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking, but not from fear. From resolve. I knew what I had to do. I went home, to the house my parents had left me. I opened the old footlocker at the end of their bed. Inside, nestled in velvet, were my father's Purple Heart and my mother's Distinguished Service Cross. They had both served. They had both died in service to their country.

These weren't just medals. They were symbols. They were my last resort. They were my only remaining currency in a world where justice was for sale.

I took the medals and the USB drive and walked out of the house. I got in my truck and started driving. I drove all night, heading east, toward Washington D.C. Toward the one place where the name Thorne might not be enough.

I arrived at the Pentagon as the sun was rising. I walked up to the imposing main gate, a place guarded by men who understood the meaning of sacrifice.

I didn't shout. I didn't demand. I sank to my knees on the cold pavement, right in front of the armed guards. I placed my parents' medals on the ground before me.

"My name is Ethan Miller," I said, my voice hoarse but clear. "I am a former Navy SEAL. My parents, Captain John Miller and Major Helen Miller, died in service to this country. My sister, Lily Miller, was murdered, and the system that was supposed to protect her has been corrupted by money and power."

I held up the USB drive. "I have proof. But no one will listen. I am here to beg for justice. For the honor of my family's name, for the oath we all took. Please. Help me."

The guards looked at each other, their professional demeanor faltering for a moment. They were young, but they recognized the medals. They recognized the desperation in my eyes.

One of them spoke into his radio, his voice low and urgent. "We have a situation at the main gate. A former SEAL, son of Captain John Miller. Yes, sir. That Miller."

He looked back at me, his expression changed. The suspicion was gone, replaced by a flicker of respect. "Stay right there, sir. Someone is coming."