Chapter 6 - THE WAREHOUSE
Terminal 4 was a decaying rusted iron skeleton sitting on the edge of the freezing Chicago River. The smell of dead fish and stagnant water hung heavy in the air.
Adrian parked the SUV a block away. We approached on foot, keeping to the shadows of the stacked shipping containers.
The massive bay doors were chained shut, but a small side door hung off its hinges. Adrian motioned for me to stay behind him. He raised his weapon and slipped inside.
I followed, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Inside, it was pitch black, save for a single construction floodlight illuminating the center of the massive floor.
Sitting directly under the blinding light, tied to a wooden chair, was Vanessa.
Her red dress was torn. Her makeup was smeared down her cheeks. She was sobbing, her chin trembling violently.
Adrian stepped out of the shadows, his gun leveled at the darkness beyond the light.
“Michael!” Adrian shouted, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal roof. “I’m here! Let her go!”
Vanessa looked up, her eyes wide with terror. “Adrian! Help me! He’s going to kill us!”
I stayed in the shadows, watching Vanessa. Something was wrong.
My eyes darted to the ropes binding her wrists. They were thick, but they weren’t tight. There was slack. And her sobbing—it was loud, performative, but her chest wasn't heaving the way a truly panicked person's would.
“Where’s Leo?” Adrian demanded, stepping closer to the light.
“I don’t know!” Vanessa cried. “He locked him in the back!”
I took a step backward, intending to circle around to the back offices to look for the boy.
My heel hit something soft.
I froze.
A cold, heavy metal circle pressed directly against the base of my neck.
“Good catch, Grace,” a rough voice whispered in my ear.
Michael Ferris.
He grabbed my injured shoulder, his fingers digging into the torn muscle. I gasped in agony, my knees buckling, but he hauled me upright, pressing the gun harder into my spine.
He stepped out of the darkness, dragging me into the edge of the floodlight's glow.
Adrian spun around, aiming his gun at Michael. When he saw me, his arms stiffened, but he didn't lower the weapon.
“Let the girl go, Michael,” Adrian said, his voice dead flat.
“Drop the gun, Adrian,” Michael replied, breathing heavily. He looked older than twelve years should have allowed. His face was lined, his eyes hollow and manic. “Or the maid dies. And you know I don't bluff.”
Adrian stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he bent his knees and placed his gun on the concrete floor. He kicked it away.
“Now,” Michael said. “Tell the truth.”
“What truth?” Adrian asked.
“Confess,” Michael barked, his grip tightening on my shoulder. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. “Confess that you killed Elias! Tell the girl! Tell Vanessa!”
Adrian looked entirely confused. “I didn't kill Elias. You were there, Michael. You know I didn't.”
“I know someone cut his brake lines!” Michael screamed, losing his composure. “I know I was framed for it! I had to run! I lost my family, my life, everything, because the Morettis needed a scapegoat!”
“I didn't frame you,” Adrian said quietly.
“Then who did?!” Michael roared.
From the center of the room, a soft, chilling laugh echoed.
We all turned.
Vanessa was standing up. The ropes had fallen effortlessly from her wrists.
She wiped the fake tears from her face, her expression completely transforming from a terrified victim to something cold, sharp, and terrifyingly amused.
She reached into the bodice of her torn red dress and pulled out a small, silver revolver.
“He really doesn't know, Michael,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with pity.
She pointed her gun at Michael.
“I cut the lines,” Vanessa said, smiling softly. “He was never going to marry me. He told me I was a mistake. So I made sure he couldn't make any more.”
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Michael stared at her, the betrayal freezing him in place.
Vanessa didn't hesitate. She pulled the trigger.
