Then, Miranda withdrew her phone. I watched my wife of ten years set a digital timer and hold the screen up to the grinning assembly. I bet thirty minutes, her lips mouthed.
Barbara retrieved her wallet. Chelsea followed suit. They were placing financial wagers on my son’s mortality.
The ensuing footage showcased the solitary miracle that spared Jamie’s life. Perry Doyle’s face appeared at the apex of the wooden fence dividing our properties, draining of all color. He scaled the barrier, shouting, vaulting into the yard, and physically tackled Walter. Perry clawed frantically at the compacted dirt around Jamie’s throat with his bare hands. Wade attempted to yank Perry away, but my neighbor threw a brutal elbow that shattered Wade’s nose in a spray of crimson.
Moments later, the yard was flooded with the frantic red and blue strobe lights of arriving patrol cars. Police officers poured over the perimeter, weapons unholstered, restraining the nine monsters while paramedics miraculously extracted my limp, dirt-covered boy.
My phone slipped from my numb grip, clattering against the Denver boardroom floor.
“Nate, Jesus, you look like you’re going to pass out,” my colleague, Arthur Zuniga, gasped, retrieving the device.
I snatched it back and immediately dialed a man named Dick Clark. He was a fixer I had met three years prior during a corporate espionage crisis—a man who operated comfortably in the darkest, unlit corridors of the world.
“Mullen,” Dick answered, his tone gravelly. “Been a while.”
“I need you,” I stated. My voice was devoid of humanity. It sounded entirely foreign to my own ears.
“What happened?”
I summarized the nightmare in three clipped sentences.
Silence hung heavy on the line. “Jesus Christ,” Dick finally murmured, the danger radiating in his tone. “Where are you?”
“Denver. Getting the next flight home. They arrested all nine of them. But Dick… consider what I’m about to ask done.”
“You don’t even know what you’re asking yet.”
“Yes, I do,” I replied, the chill in my chest expanding. “I want to dismantle their lives. Brick by brick.”
“Send me the names,” Dick said. “I’ll start digging.”
I terminated the call and pivoted toward the elevator, leaving a bewildered Arthur in my wake. The shock was already incinerating, replaced by a glacial, unyielding fury. I had spent my entire life as the rational architect, adhering to blueprints, structural integrity, and the rule of law. But the law would offer a plea deal. The law would offer leniency.
As the elevator descended, I finalized my first, terrible decision. I was going to construct a prison for my family far worse than any concrete cell, but I needed to know if Dick could unearth the ammunition to fuel the demolition.
Chapter 2: Laying the Foundation of Ruin
The commercial flight to Richmond—four agonizing hours compounded by a layover in Chicago—felt like a purgatorial sentence. Confined to seat 14A, I stared blindly at the seatback screen, the looping footage of Jamie’s dirt-streaked, terrorized face burning itself onto my retinas.
