Chapter 11

Jace:

I didn't move. Not after she walked away. Not after the garage door slammed shut behind her. Not after the words she'd thrown at me settled into the silence. "You're a killer." The parking lot suddenly felt too small. Too quiet. Too empty. I stared at the closed bay door where she'd disappeared. She was crying. Calla Vance. The girl who scraped her knees climbing docks and refused to cry. The teenager who broke her wrist during a race and only complained because the cast meant she couldn't drive. The woman who'd looked me dead in the eye yesterday without letting a single emotion show. I'd made her cry. Or maybe… I'd reminded her why she'd spent two years trying not to.

My hand instinctively found my chest. Right over my heart. I pressed hard against the ache, rubbing slow circles through my T-shirt like I could somehow keep it from splitting open. "Breathe..." The word barely escaped. She wasn't wrong. Not from where she stood. Not from what she'd lived through. Camden was dead. I was alive. Facts didn't care about intent. They just existed. I looked once more at the garage. The security light cast long shadows across the parking lot, illuminating the faded sign above the building. VANCE PERFORMANCE GARAGE Cam would've laughed if he knew his sister was still running the place. Probably would've complained she organized his tools better than he ever did. 

The thought hurt. Everything hurt. There wasn't a damn thing I could say tonight that would change that. No explanation. No apology. No promise. Not until I had something real. Not until I had proof. I turned toward the Camaro. The gravel crunched beneath my Converse. Every step felt heavier than the last. By the time I climbed into the driver's seat, my chest still hadn't loosened. I rested both hands on the steering wheel. Closed my eyes. Saw Calla's face. Saw the tears she'd tried so hard to hide. Saw Camden. Always Camden. The engine roared to life. The sound felt hollow tonight.

The drive back to Riverside blurred together. Red lights. Green lights. The bridge. The river. I couldn't remember any of it. My mind stayed in that parking lot. "I waited." God… That one cut deepest. Because I knew exactly what she meant. I'd disappeared. I'd convinced myself leaving was protecting everyone. Protecting her. Protecting Camden's family. Instead… I'd abandoned them.

The tiny fishing shack came into view. Its porch light glowed against the darkness, welcoming me home in a way I didn't deserve. I parked beside the dock. Killed the engine. Sat there for another minute. Then another. Finally… I grabbed the backpack. It had been shoved into the corner of my bedroom closet the day I moved back. Old canvas. Faded green. One strap sewn back together by my mom fifteen years ago after Camden overloaded it with scrap parts we'd "borrowed" from the junkyard. She'd never known. Or maybe she had. Parents usually did.

Inside… Beneath old race schedules. Maps. Receipts. Was exactly what I'd been looking for. A stack of worn manila folders. The edges were soft from being handled too many times. Corners bent. Coffee stains across one. My handwriting covered the tabs. 

CRASH REPORT, WITNESS STATEMENTS, PHOTOS, MECHANICAL

Two years. I'd carried them everywhere. Every motel. Every apartment. Every garage I'd worked in with the Reapers. Every time I thought I was done… I'd open them again. Looking for something I'd missed. Tonight… I spread everything across the tiny kitchen table. The shack wasn't much. One bedroom. One bathroom. A kitchen barely big enough for two people. The overhead light flickered once before settling. Paper covered every inch of the table. Police reports. Insurance reports. Tow yard inventories. Fire department findings. Photographs I'd paid someone far too much money to copy before the evidence locker closed the case. I knew every page. Every line. By heart. Still… I started from the beginning. Again. The accident report. Date. Time. Weather. Dry pavement. Clear visibility. Estimated speed. Witnesses claimed both cars were running neck and neck before Camden failed to negotiate Turn Seven. Driver error. Bullshit. I slid that report aside. Mechanical inspection. Performed after the fire. The conclusion made my blood boil every time. "Brake system too heavily damaged to determine pre-impact condition." Convenient.

 Next folder. Witness statements. Same rumors. Same assumptions.

"Looked like Jace forced him wide."

"Camden missed the corner."

"They were racing hard."

No one had actually seen the failure. Only the result. I reached for the photographs. My favorites. If favorites could exist in something this ugly. Pictures of Camden's Camaro after the wreck. Burned. Twisted. Destroyed. I studied the driver's side wheel again. The brake rotor. The caliper. I'd stared at it hundreds of times. Something had always felt… Wrong. But I'd never been able to prove what. Frustrated, I leaned back. The old wooden chair creaked beneath me. My eyes drifted across the room. Then… To another folder. One I'd almost never opened anymore. NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS Mostly garbage. Opinion pieces. Rumors. Stories calling me reckless. Murderer. Coward. I almost shoved it aside. Instead… One headline caught my attention. Not because of me. Because of the date. Three months after Camden's funeral.

VANCE CONSTRUCTION ANNOUNCES MAJOR EASTSIDE EXPANSION

I frowned. I didn't remember this one. I unfolded the brittle newspaper carefully. There was Tom Vance. Standing beside Eastside developers. Shaking hands. Smiling for cameras. Another article followed six weeks later.

LOCAL BUSINESSMAN PURCHASES WATERFRONT ESTATE

Another.

VANCE FAMILY RELOCATES TO EASTSIDE

I blinked. That… Didn't make sense. Sure. Tom Vance had always made good money. Construction. Land development. Everyone knew that. He'd built half of Riverside. But Eastside? Eastside wasn't just expensive. It was obscene. Old money. Political money. The kind of neighborhoods where people bought houses because they got bored. I picked up another clipping. Luxury gala. Ribbon cutting. Tom standing beside people I'd never seen before. One face, though… Made me stop. A younger version of Reve's father. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Tom. Both smiling. Both shaking hands. Both looking awfully comfortable.

My pulse quickened. "No..." I spread the clippings out in order. The timeline formed itself. Camden dies. Three months later… The Vances suddenly expand into Eastside. New business partners. New money. New house. A completely different life. I frowned harder. That wasn't grief. That was acceleration. Fast. Too fast. I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What happened?" Not to Camden. To Tom. Something had changed. Something big enough to uproot the entire family. Calla had always talked about Riverside like she'd never leave. Camden had laughed at Eastside. Tom used to say he'd never abandon the people who built his business. So why had he? Unless… He hadn't had a choice. Or he'd been given one. I reached for my notebook and wrote three names across the top of a fresh page.

Tom Vance.

Reve Ronan.

Drift Kings.

Then I drew lines connecting them. There were too many coincidences. Too many unanswered questions. Maybe they meant nothing. Maybe I was chasing ghosts. Or maybe… I'd finally found the thread that had been missing for two years. I looked at the stack of files covering my kitchen table. The papers were worn thin from countless nights exactly like this one. Two years of searching. Two years of guilt. Two years of asking the wrong question. Maybe I didn't need to ask who killed Camden. Maybe I needed to ask what Camden had discovered before he died. 

Outside, the tide rolled quietly against the dock. Inside, for the first time since coming home… The investigation wasn't just about a race anymore. It was about the Vance family. And whatever had dragged them from Riverside… To the very people Camden had never trusted.