Chapter 6 - The Secret in the Floorboards
Late that night, while Clara slept peacefully in her cherry-wood bed, Weston, Maren, and Arthur Vance sat gathered in the grand library around a large mahogany conference table littered with legal documents, corporate ledgers, and maps of the city.
"Julian is using his political sway over the county family court judge to force the unfitness hearing," Arthur explained, tapping his gold pen against a legal pad. "If we go into that courtroom on Thursday with only verbal accusations of his embezzlement, the judge will rule in Julian's favor, declare Maren an unfit fugitive, and place Clara in state custody."
"We need the original audit hard drives," Maren said quietly, sitting up straight in her chair, her eyes burning with newfound determination. "When I realized Julian was going to frame me, I downloaded the unencrypted transaction logs onto an external encrypted drive."
Weston leaned forward. "Where is the drive, Maren?"
"It's hidden inside my old apartment on Butler Street," Maren revealed. "Before the police locked the doors and posted the eviction notice, I lifted a floorboard under the heating vent in Clara's bedroom and tucked the drive inside an iron junction box. The police searched the apartment, but they didn't tear up the floorboards."
Arthur shook his head grimly. "That apartment building was condemned and seized by Vanguard Holdings three weeks ago. It's locked down, guarded by private security, and scheduled for demolition on Friday morning."
Weston stood up, walking over to his wall map of the city. He located Butler Street—a rundown industrial district near the rail yards.
"Then we get the drive tonight," Weston said flatly.
"Weston, that's illegal trespass on corporate property," Arthur warned. "If Julian’s security catches you inside that building, they can shoot you or have you arrested for burglary."
"Julian Vanguard stole forty million dollars, ruined an innocent woman's life, and tried to terrorize a six-year-old child," Weston replied, pulling his leather gloves from his coat pocket. "I'm not letting him demolish that building until we have what we need."
Twenty minutes later, a sleek, unmarked black SUV pulled out of the Calloway estate garage, cutting through the dark, snow-choked streets of Minneapolis toward the industrial district.
Weston drove, accompanied by Marcus—his head of corporate security, a six-foot-four former Marine who had managed security operations for Calloway Restoration for twelve years.
The condemned apartment building on Butler Street was a bleak, four-story brick structure surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. A single private security guard sat inside a heated pickup truck parked near the front entrance, sipping coffee.
"Marcus, keep the engine running," Weston instructed quietly. "If anyone comes near the perimeter, cut the lights."
"Understood, boss," Marcus nodded, pulling a high-powered tactical flashlight from his belt. "Be careful in there. That floor structure was red-tagged for collapse."
Weston slipped out of the vehicle, moving silently through the deep snow. Using a pair of heavy wire cutters, he cut a clean section through the chain-link fence behind the dumpster, slipping through the gap and reaching the rear fire escape.
The lock on the rusted iron door was old and seized by ice. Weston pulled a heavy steel crowbar from his belt, inserted it into the door frame, and applied smooth, relentless pressure. With a low, metallic CRACK, the latch gave way.
Inside, the building was pitch-black, freezing, and dead silent, smelling of damp plaster, ancient dust, and mold.
Weston clicked on his small penlight, navigating the creaking, warped stairs up to the third floor. He found Apartment 3B—the door marked with bright orange police tape and a legal seizure notice signed by Vanguard Holdings.
He stepped over the tape, entering the small, empty apartment.
It was heartbreakingly sparse. A broken plastic table, a worn sofa with its stuffing ripped out, and a few scattered children's drawings lying on the cold floorboards. This was where Maren and Clara had lived before Julian Vanguard threw them into the snow.
Weston walked into the small back room—Clara's bedroom. He crouched by the metal heating vent, pulling out a screwdriver. He unbolted the rusted iron grate, reached inside the dark floor cavity, and felt around the cold plaster joists.
His fingers brushed against cold metal.
He pulled out a heavy, cast-iron junction box sealed with electrical tape. Inside lay a sleek, black metallic external hard drive wrapped in protective bubble wrap.
"Got you," Weston murmured.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy footsteps echoed down the third-floor corridor outside.
A bright halogen beam cut through the darkness of the apartment doorway, pinning Weston against the wall.
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"DON'T MOVE!" a harsh voice barked.
Standing in the doorway was Julian Vanguard’s lead security fixer, holding a heavy tactical flashlight in one hand and a suppressed 9mm pistol in the other.
