Chapter 2 - The Erased Evidence
The university campus police department had been remarkably efficient at one thing: erasing reality.
When I arrived at the station earlier that evening, the desk sergeant wouldn't even look me in the eye. Campus security officially claimed that every camera near the campus library walkway—where Nora was ambushed—had “mysteriously malfunctioned” at 11:43 PM. The emergency blue-light call phones along the path were suddenly offline for maintenance. The students who had been studying at the nearby benches suddenly remembered nothing, staring blankly at the walls when questioned.
Evidence wasn't just missing. It was being surgically excised.
It wasn't until a sympathetic night nurse handed me Nora’s blood-caked, torn gray university sweatshirt that I found the truth. As I folded it into a plastic evidence bag, a small piece of lined paper fell out of the kangaroo pocket, stiffened with dried blood.
Scrawled in a frantic, hurried hand—probably written by Nora on her phone before they smashed it—were four names.
Chad Kensington.
Brantley Sterling.
Wyatt Holbrook.
Preston Caldwell.
I recognized the surnames immediately. They were the untouchables of this state. Construction money that built half the capital. Washington political connections. Defense contracts. Private offshore banking dynasties.
When Detective Vance—no relation—finally met me in the hospital corridor, he barely glanced at Nora’s medical chart. He stood near the exit, his hand hovering over his car keys.
“Look, Mr. Miller, it’s a tragedy,” the detective said, his voice entirely devoid of empathy. “But campus security says no footage exists. No witnesses have stepped forward. Without physical evidence or a positive ID from the victim... well, there may not be much we can do.”
His hands trembled slightly when he spoke the name Caldwell. He was terrified.
“Then I suppose you’re finished here, Detective,” I said quietly.
A wave of palpable relief washed over his face. He actually thought I was surrendering to the natural order of the wealthy eating the powerless.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning on his heel and walking away.
I walked back into the hallway, reached inside the lining of my worn leather jacket, and pulled out a heavy black challenge coin I hadn't touched in nineteen years.
A silver eagle stamped into obsidian metal.
May you like
Four engraved words along the rim: VANGUARD NEVER DIES.
There was a private, encrypted satellite number laser-etched on the back. I tapped it into my phone and pressed call.
