Chapter 7 - The Bugged Phone And The Race To Save My House
We spent the rest of the night going through the rest of the envelope, making copies of everything, storing the originals in Beau’s gun safe, along with the letters, the photo, and the key with the bluebird charm. By 5 a.m. we had enough evidence to put Brian and Cole away for life: the video, the confession, the deed with the mineral rights clause, Cole’s admission that he’d helped Brian, the tire alibi that proved he’d lied.
All we needed was Brian.
“We’ll pick him up this morning,” Beau said, pouring me another cup of coffee, his face tired but determined. “Got a team waiting for my call. We’ll hit his motel room at 6 a.m., when he’s still asleep. No fuss, no shootouts. Just cuffs and a jail cell. He’ll talk soon as he finds out Cole’s already singing.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the bad feeling in my stomach, the same tight, cold dread I’d felt the day the sheriff knocked on my door. Something was wrong. Something we’d missed.
I picked up my phone to check the time, and I froze.
I’d had this phone for two years. I’d dropped it a hundred times, spilled soda on it, cracked the screen so bad you could barely read the texts. But last week, when I’d taken it to the repair shop to get the screen fixed? The guy behind the counter had been Cole’s nephew.
“Beau,” I said, my voice tight. “My phone. I think — I think they bugged it. That’s how Cole knew I was in Hale’s office. That’s how Brian knew I’d found the letters in the bluebird house. That’s how he knew Mabel was gonna testify. He’s been listening to every single thing I’ve said for a week.”
Beau’s face went white. He grabbed the phone from me, turned it over, and pried the back off with a pocketknife. Taped to the battery, small and black and easy to miss, was a tiny listening device, the kind you could buy online for $20.
“Son of a bitch,” Beau whispered, yanking the bug out and crushing it under his boot. “He’s heard everything. Every call we made, every plan we talked about, every location we mentioned. He knows we’re coming for him.”
His radio crackled to life then, a deputy’s voice panicked, urgent: “Sheriff, we just hit the motel. Brian’s gone. Room’s empty, bed still made, left his wallet and his keys on the nightstand. Neighbor says he saw a man matching his description leave in a stolen pickup 10 minutes ago, headed toward Maple Street. Fast.”
Maple Street.
My house.
“He’s gonna burn it down,” I said, jumping to my feet, ignoring the pain in my back. “All the original evidence is there — the letters, the photo, the deed I found in the bluebird house. If he burns it, even with the video and Hale’s testimony, it’s our word against his. He’ll claim the video was faked, that Hale was senile, that I made the whole thing up to steal his grandma’s money. He’ll walk. And then he’ll come for me and the baby.”
“Get in the car,” Beau said, already running for the door, his radio blaring orders to his deputies. “We’ve got 10 minutes before he gets there. Backup’s five minutes behind us. We can make it.”
We peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching, Beau driving 80 down the back roads, siren blaring, lights flashing. I held on to the door handle for dear life, my other hand pressed to my stomach, praying we’d get there in time, praying Brian hadn’t already poured the gasoline, praying my house — the only home my baby had ever known — wouldn’t be gone before we arrived.
We rounded the corner onto Maple Street, and my heart dropped.
Brian’s stolen pickup was parked in my driveway, the engine still running. My front door was wide open. And I could see him through the living room window, a red gasoline can in his hand, pouring liquid all over my couch, my coffee table, the pile of Margaret’s letters I’d left stacked on the floor, too tired to put them away the night I’d gone to the hospital.
“Stop the car,” I yelled, unbuckling my seatbelt before Beau could even cut the engine. “He’s gonna light it! I can see the matches in his other hand!”
“Ellie, wait —” Beau started, but I was already out of the car, running as fast as I could toward the house, my big belly slowing me down, my boots slapping against the pavement. I didn’t care that Brian was dangerous. I didn’t care that he had a gun, that he’d killed two people already, that he was capable of anything. Those letters were Margaret’s last words. They were proof of everything she’d done, everything she’d sacrificed. I wasn’t gonna let him burn them. Not without a fight.
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I burst through the front door, gasping for air, and Brian turned, his eyes wild, a match already struck in his hand, the flame flickering bright in the dim room.
“Well, well,” he said, smiling that same lazy, evil smile that had once made me weak in the knees. “Look who decided to show up. Just in time to watch everything go up in smoke. Hand over the video and the will, Ellie. Now. Or I drop this match, and you, me, and the letters all burn together.”
