CHAPTER 5 — THE MAN IN THE BLACK SUV
CHAPTER 5 — THE MAN IN THE BLACK SUV
The black SUV stayed exactly three cars behind me.
Not close enough to be obvious.
Not far enough to lose me.
Every time I changed lanes, it changed lanes.
Every time I slowed, it slowed.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I was thirty-two weeks pregnant.
My husband was dead.
Someone had just threatened my unborn daughter.
And now they were following me through downtown Chicago.
I drove past my apartment.
I kept going.
The SUV kept following.
I remembered something Liam used to say.
"If someone ever follows you, don't go home. Make them show themselves."
Instead of turning into my neighborhood, I headed toward the nearest police station.
The moment the blue POLICE sign came into view, the SUV hesitated.
Then it accelerated.
It shot through a yellow light just before it turned red.
By the time I reached the intersection, it was gone.
Officer Daniel Brooks—the same officer who had informed me of Liam's death—listened carefully as I described the vehicle.
"Black Chevrolet Tahoe."
I nodded.
"Tinted windows."
"License plate?"
"I only caught the first three characters."
He wrote everything down.
Then he looked directly at me.
"Mrs. Harper... has anyone besides your attorney known you were investigating your father's estate?"
"My family."
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into a drawer and removed a photograph.
It showed Liam's wrecked pickup truck.
Crushed beyond recognition.
"I probably shouldn't be showing you this."
My stomach tightened.
"The accident report says the delivery truck crossed the center line."
"That's what it says."
"You don't agree?"
Officer Brooks lowered his voice.
"There were no skid marks."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means..."
He paused.
"...your husband never hit the brakes."
My pulse quickened.
"Maybe he didn't have time."
"That's what I thought."
He slid another photograph across the desk.
It showed the underside of Liam's truck.
One brake line had been sliced cleanly.
Not torn.
Cut.
With a sharp blade.
The room spun.
"No..."
"The state lab originally classified it as damage from the collision."
"But?"
Brooks looked toward the closed office door.
"I asked a mechanic friend to examine the photos."
"What did he say?"
"He said those brake lines were cut before the crash."
I couldn't breathe.
Liam hadn't died in an accident.
Someone had murdered him.
That night I couldn't sleep.
Every sound outside my apartment made me jump.
At 2:13 a.m., my phone vibrated.
One new text.
Unknown number.
There was no message.
Only a photograph.
It had been taken through my living room window.
I was visible inside.
Standing beside the crib we had just assembled.
The timestamp read...
Ten minutes earlier.
Someone had been outside my apartment while I was awake.
Watching.
I rushed to the window.
The street below was empty.
Except...
Across the road...
The black SUV was pulling away.
The next morning, Officer Brooks insisted I move somewhere safer.
"There are women's shelters."
"I don't want Maya born in hiding."
"What about family?"
I laughed.
The sound surprised even me.
"Family is exactly why this is happening."
Three days later I went into premature labor.
The contractions began while I was grocery shopping.
By the time I reached the hospital, they were two minutes apart.
Twenty-one hours later...
My daughter entered the world.
She weighed five pounds, eleven ounces.
Tiny.
Perfect.
The nurse laid her on my chest.
"What's her name?"
I smiled through tears.
"Maya Elizabeth Harper."
Elizabeth.
After Liam's mother.
Not mine.
As I held her, I whispered the promise every mother makes.
"No one will ever hurt you."
I believed it.
I had no idea that within forty-eight hours...
The greatest danger to Maya would come from her own grandmother.
The day before I was discharged, Officer Brooks visited my hospital room.
He closed the door before speaking.
"We identified the owner of the black SUV."
My heart raced.
"Who is it?"
He handed me a registration report.
The vehicle wasn't registered to an individual.
It belonged to a company.
MILLER PROPERTY MANAGEMENT LLC.
I stared at the name.
"My family doesn't own a property company."
"They do now."
According to state records, the company had been incorporated eight months earlier.
The listed officers were:
Eleanor Miller.
Julian Miller.
Vanessa Miller.
Its business address?
My father's house.
Then Brooks handed me one final page.
Bank records obtained through a financial subpoena.
Several large payments had been made from the company account.
One payment stood out.
$75,000
Recipient:
North Shore Logistics.
I frowned.
"What is that?"
May you like
Brooks' expression hardened.
"The trucking company that employed the driver who killed your husband."
