Chapter 8 - The Face Behind the Screen
Inside the delivery van, Marcus’s monitors exploded with activity.
"We’ve got a live transmission!" Marcus yelled into his radio headset, his fingers flying across the keys as cascades of blue data streamed down his dual screens. "Localized peer-to-peer connection initiated. The node is active. I’m pulling the hardware address now... come on, give me the handshake protocol..."
"Do you have a location, Marcus?" Detective Harris’s voice crackled through the comms from an unmarked sedan parked near the library.
"The signal strength is maximum," Marcus reported, his eyes wide. "It’s close. Really close. Wait... the MAC address matches a registered Apple device... it’s registered to a corporate account. 'Rachel Vance Real Estate Holdings.' We’ve got her!"
"Where is she?" Harris demanded. "Is she in the office across the street?"
"No," Marcus said, looking at the signal degradation matrix. "The signal isn't coming from across the street. The signal strength is too high for that masonry building. She’s in the park. She’s within fifty feet of Claire!"
Claire felt her phone vibrate again. She kept her face down, pretending to cry, but her eyes were scanning the perimeter of the fountain through the gaps in her fingers.
Don't bother looking up, Claire. You won't see me until it's too late. I’m going to watch you walk into that hotel room tonight, and then I’m going to take what should have been Elena's.
Claire’s breath hitched. She didn't look up, but she whispered into the small, hidden microphone pinned beneath the collar of her shirt. "She’s in the park. She says she’s going to watch me walk into the hotel. She’s watching me right now."
"Units, hold positions," Harris’s voice echoed in Claire’s earpiece. "Do not spook her. Scan the crowds. Look for anyone holding a tablet or a phone with an active external antenna profile."
Claire’s eyes drifted toward the mother on the swings. No, she was holding a juice box. The man with the dog? He was throwing a ball.
Then, her eyes landed on a parked commercial utility van—not Marcus’s van, but a white vehicle marked City Water Department parked right next to the fountain's service access road. The driver’s side window was tinted, but it was rolled down a mere two inches. Through the gap, the matte-black edge of a high-end directional antenna was visible, pointed directly at Claire’s bench.
"She’s in the City Water van," Claire whispered into her collar, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Directly behind my bench. The driver's window is cracked."
"Confirmed," Harris said instantly. "All units, move in. Block the vehicle exits. Execute the warrant."
The peace of the afternoon shattered in an instant. Two unmarked police sedans screeched around the corner, blocking the front and rear bumpers of the utility van. Four plainclothes detectives drew their weapons, rushing the driver’s side door.
"Police! Don't move! Keep your hands on the wheel!"
The driver's door was flung open. Claire stood up, pushing Liam's stroller back toward the safety of the brick pavilion as the commotion unfolded.
A woman was dragged from the driver's seat. She wasn't wearing the elegant business suit she had worn in the boutique video. She was wearing a grease-stained utility jumpsuit, a baseball cap pulled low over her face, her blonde hair tucked away.
But as the officers forced her onto her stomach against the asphalt and stripped the cap away, there was no mistaking the sharp, patrician features of Rachel Vance.
In her hand, still active and illuminating the gravel, was a modified tablet connected to a portable cellular array. The screen showed a live, split-screen display: one side was Claire's public social media page, and the other was the encrypted terminal used to send the localized threats.
Rachel didn't scream or thrash like her sister Elena had. As Harris pulled her up and clicked the steel handcuffs around her wrists, she looked over her shoulder at Claire.
Her expression wasn't one of madness; it was one of cold, aristocratic contempt.
May you like
"You think you won, Claire?" Rachel spat, her voice low and venomous as she was led toward the police car. "You’re a placeholder. You’re a second-choice wife living in a house my family picked out. Every time you look at that baby, you’ll remember that we were there first."
Claire stood her ground, her hand resting firmly on the handle of Liam’s stroller. She didn't flinch. She didn't look away. "You were there first, Rachel. But we’re the ones who are staying."
