Then Garrick’s cousin called him from a monitored phone line and warned that federal agents were asking pointed questions about the shell company.
Garrick completely exploded.
That night, he left me a voicemail. “You brought the government into this? You stupid little bureaucrat. I’ll bury you before they find anything.”
Ethan listened to the recording twice. “That is close,” he said, “but we need intent tied to a physical action.”
“You’ll have it.”
My mother stared at me, her eyes wide. “You knew he would come.”
“I knew men like Garrick cannot tolerate losing control.”
She began crying softly. “I brought him into our family.”
“No. He chose to hurt you. The blame belongs entirely to him.”
At 9:14 the next evening, Garrick bought ammunition. At 10:03, he texted my mother: Tonight, this ends. At 10:41, a city traffic camera captured his black truck turning toward my neighborhood.
Ethan’s voice came through my hidden earpiece. “Target is moving. Ready?”
