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Chapter 745:

The inside of the shipping container smelled of rust and mildew and fear. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth, casting flickering shadows on the metal walls.

In the center of the container, tied to a metal chair, was a man.

He was middle-aged, with a greasy beard and long, unkempt hair, wearing a dirty flannel shirt and jeans. His eyes were wild with terror, and he strained against the ropes that bound him to the chair.

When he heard the door open, he froze.

Joan walked into the container. Her heels clicked on the cold metal floor, the sound echoing in the small space. She stopped a few feet from the chair and stared down at him.

Easton followed her in, pulling the door shut behind him. It closed with a loud bang, cutting off all light from outside. The only illumination was that single, swinging bulb.

Arthur stood by the door, arms crossed over his chest, watching.

The man stared at Joan.

𝗗оw𝗻𝗹𝗼а𝘥 𝘗D𝗙ѕ 𝘧𝗋𝖾𝖾 оn

Then his eyes went wide.

He gasped, his face draining of all color. He looked like a man who had seen a ghost—because he had. He knew that face. He had seen it in the newspapers seven years ago. He had seen it in his nightmares, every single night since.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead p>

Joan’s lips curled into a cold, thin smile.

“Hello, Mike,” she said, her voice carrying off the metal walls. “Long time no see. I see you still remember my mother’s face p>

Mike struggled harder against the ropes, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’ve got the wrong guy! Let me go p>

Joan laughed—a short, bitter sound. She pulled a folding chair from the corner and sat down opposite him.

“Sure, Mike,” she said. “Whatever you say p>

She nodded at Easton.

Easton stepped forward and slammed a black tablet onto the small metal table between them. He pressed play.

Richard Beasley’s voice filled the container, loud and clear.

“…paid that mechanic fifty grand to mess with the brakes. Sent the money to that shitty garage in Brooklyn. No paper trail. Nothing. Perfect crime p>

The recording ended.

Easton looked at Mike, raising an eyebrow. “Still don’t know what we’re talking about p>

Mike’s face had gone the color of ash. Sweat poured down his face, soaking through his shirt. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Richard sold you out, Mike,” Joan said, leaning forward. “He told us everything. He’s going to cut a deal with the DA and pin the whole thing on you. You’re going to take the fall for murder. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison. And he’s going to walk free. Is that what you want p>

Mike shook his head violently. “No! That’s not true! He promised he’d take care of me! He said no one would ever find out p>