Chapter 4 - What Brennan Knew
"Get behind me," I told Marcus softly.
I didn't run. I stood my ground as Greg approached, his work boots crunching heavily on the gravel. He was a bulky man with a red, fleshy face and thick arms that stuck out awkwardly from his high-visibility vest.
When the light hit my face, Greg stopped five paces short, a sneer twisting his mouth.
"Well, well. The crazy uncle," Greg sneered, shining the light directly into my eyes. "You're trespassing on private property, Vance. I could have the guards drop you right now."
"Try it," I said, stepping into the light so he could see my hands were clear, but my stance was set. "I came to fetch my brother’s personal tools."
"Brennan’s tools belong to the mill now," Greg snorted. "And so does that kid you stole this morning. Brenda’s crying her eyes out at home while you play hero."
"Brenda didn't even show up to the custody hearing, Greg," I replied coldly. "The judge granted me temporary custody. If you come within a hundred yards of my workshop or my niece, you’ll be breaking a federal court order."
Greg’s face flushed a deep, ugly purple. He took a step closer, raising his flashlight as if to poke me in the chest. "That little brat has a land trust tied up in her name. Brennan was a fool, and so are you. She doesn't need sixty acres of dirt. She needs to sit down and do what she's told."
"She’s four years old," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And you laid your hands on her."
"She fell down the stairs," Greg lied instantly, though a slight twitch in his jaw gave him away. "Kids are clumsy."
"She walked three miles in the rain with marks on her arms matching your grip," I said, taking one slow step toward him. "And she carried a document with Brennan’s forged signature. You aren't just going to lose the land, Greg. You’re going to lose everything."
Greg’s eyes flicked to the oil-stained notebook tucked inside my jacket pocket. For a fraction of a second, panic crossed his features before he forced a smirk.
"You got no proof of nothing, Vance. Brennan drove his own truck over that cliff because he was broke and couldn't handle his life. Just like you couldn't save your squad over in the sandbox."
It was a cheap hit meant to draw a punch. If I hit him, he’d have me arrested for assault, the protective order would be revoked, and Hollis would be sent back into his hands.
I took a deep breath, letting the anger settle into cold, calculated focus.
"Keep talking, Greg," I said quietly. "Every word you say is making Naira Kenley’s job easier."
I turned my back on him and walked toward my truck.
"You think you won?!" Greg yelled after me into the dark, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal of the sawmill walls. "That kid is coming back to us! And that land is getting sold whether you like it or not!"
I got into my truck, started the engine, and drove out of the gate. My hands were steady on the steering wheel, but my heart was pounding.
When I got back to the workshop, the house was silent. I walked softly into the bedroom. Hollis was fast asleep, clutching the sleeve of my old Army shirt like a security blanket. The small nightlight projected tiny stars across the wooden ceiling.
I sat down at my workbench in the adjoining room, opened Brennan’s maintenance notebook, and spread out the photos I had taken of the forged relinquishment form.
Beside them, I laid out my brother's actual handwriting samples from old letters he had sent me while I was deployed.
The difference was clear under a magnifying glass. Brennan always drew his capital 'B' with a double loop at the bottom, a habit from his early days learning draftsmanship. The signature on the relinquishment form had a single, straight stroke.
And then I saw it.
Under the bright desk lamp, on the blank margin of the last page of Brennan's maintenance log, was an impression left by a heavy ballpoint pen from the page that had been torn out before Marcus found it.
I picked up a piece of soft carpenter's graphite and lightly shaded over the paper.
White letters emerged against the gray dust:
Dispatch Log #409 - Hydraulic Fluid Cut - G.R.
'G.R.' stood for Greg Ross.
Brennan hadn't died in an accidental brake failure. He had discovered that his truck’s hydraulic lines had been deliberately cut in the mill bay before he drove up the ridge road. He had logged the evidence right before somebody forced him off the road—or made sure he never reached home.
I picked up my phone and dialed Naira's private line.
"Naira," I said when she answered on the third ring. "We don't just need a custody lawyer anymore."
"What did you find, Cassian?"
May you like
"I found the murder weapon."
Here are Part 5 and Part 6 of the story, plunging deeper into the legal battle, the hidden criminal network, and Cassian's unyielding fight to keep Hollis safe.
