Chapter 9 - THE CONFRONTATION AT THE DOOR
Before anyone could move toward the back exit, a heavy, deliberate knock echoed against the locked front glass door of the diner.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The heavy aluminum blinds rattled against the glass. Through the thin gaps in the slats, the tall, broad shadow of a man in an expensive dark wool overcoat was visible standing on the front stoop.
Jonah walked to the front of the diner, stopping just behind the locked glass door. He reached out and adjusted one of the blind slats with two fingers, looking out onto the fog-shrouded stoop.
Standing outside was Marcus Vance himself.
At fifty-eight, Vance was a sleek, silver-haired attorney with sharp, aristocratic features, wearing a tailored black coat and carrying a leather briefcase. Behind him on the sidewalk stood two large men in black tactical jackets, their hands resting inside their deep pockets.
Vance smiled through the glass—a cold, empty, practiced smile that carried years of unpunished corruption.
"Jonah," Vance’s voice called out, muffled by the heavy glass door. "Open up. I know the girl is inside."
Jonah didn't open the door. He stood motionless, his towering, heavily tattooed frame casting a dark shadow over the stoop.
"You're trespassing on private property, Vance," Jonah said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl through the door's metal frame.
"I own the mortgage on this diner, Jonah," Vance replied smoothly, taking a small step closer to the glass. "And I own the foreclosure deed on Daniel Mercer's estate. The girl has property in her backpack that belongs to my legal firm. Hand her over, and we can settle Daniel's old debts quietly."
Jonah’s jaw tightened until the skin was taut. He reached into his pocket, his thumb feeling the sharp, intricate notches of the small brass key.
"Daniel didn't owe you a single dime," Jonah said coldly through the glass. "You stole his life, Vance. You filed a fake missing persons report, you faked his signature, and you hunted him into the woods for twelve years."
Vance’s practiced smile vanished instantly. His pale eyes hardened into cold, calculating malice.
"Daniel was a ghost, Jonah," Vance whispered, leaning close to the glass pane. "And ghosts don't have rights. Whatever little trinket that child gave you... it won't stand up in a court of law against my firm."
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Jonah took a step closer to the door, his eyes locking onto Vance's with an intensity that made the older attorney flinch despite the heavy glass between them.
"This key isn't for a court of law, Vance," Jonah said softly, his voice laced with a lethal promise. "It's for us."
