SECRETS AND A DECADE LONG CASE
Early in the morning, while Janis and Adrian lingered at home, others were plotting their next move.
In the velvet-draped backroom of an exclusive club, where the air smelled of scotch, secrets, and expensive betrayal, three figures sat around a polished marble table. Jazz hummed faintly in the background, like a heartbeat.
At the center was Cecilia Pedro—queen bee, elegant and ruthless—swirling her drink as if it held someone's fate. Opposite her sat Mr. Almondo, Grand Aura's CFO, sweating despite the air conditioning. Beside him, cloaked in shadows, was an unknown man whose presence clearly had nothing to do with spreadsheets.
"Thirty million… gone. And now Adrian has the entire executive board rifling through spreadsheets like it's a crime scene. What an overreaction," Cecilia murmured, still swirling her glass.
"It was never supposed to spiral this far," Almondo stammered. "The embezzlement was meant to be small—just enough to shake confidence. Not this… forensic witch hunt."
Cecilia's eyes glinted. "You gave me your word this would stay quiet, Almondo. I gave you your position to handle things, not to lose control."
"We had control… until Adrian dug into the Zerola shipping logs. He's already flagged inconsistencies with the Frankus tankers. If he digs any deeper—"
The unknown man cleared his throat, and silence fell.
"Then plug the hole," he said softly, each word heavy as stone.
Cecilia tilted her head, intrigued.
"Exactly. Adrian is becoming inconvenient. Too sharp. Too focused. He was supposed to be a placeholder—a bastard child with charm, not strategy."
"He's not like Robert," Almondo admitted stiffly. "He doesn't crave approval. He moves in silence. Worse—the board respects him. And he cares about Grand Aura because it's tied to Dynamic Motors."
"That makes him dangerous," Cecilia said coldly. "Robert may be weak, but weakness can be controlled. Adrian? He's unpredictable. We must get ahead of this before he uncovers things best left buried. And Dynamic Motors needs to be cut out of Grand Aura entirely."
Almondo shifted uneasily. He knew exactly what "things" meant—the past. The deals. The deaths.
"He doesn't know. Not about the Jacksons. Not about what we did. He's looking at numbers, not names," Almondo whispered.
"For now," the unknown man added.
"Then keep it that way," Cecilia said smoothly. She lifted her glass. "He's already isolated. We'll leak whispers—rumors of instability, mental stress, board tension. Investors get nervous, and Robert becomes the distraction."
"And what about the wife? Janis?" Almondo asked carefully.
"The PR-marriage girl? Pretty, smiles well, keeps the press busy. She's harmless," Cecilia scoffed.
But Almondo's jaw tightened. Something about Janis unsettled him, though he kept silent.
"Handle the numbers, Almondo. Quiet the scandal. If Adrian won't go quietly… well, we've cleaned up bigger messes before, haven't we?" Cecilia said with a polished, ice-cold smile.
The unknown man raised his glass in silence. Almondo swallowed hard. Outside, the city glittered. Inside, the real power shifted like smoke.
---
Later, Almondo escorted the unknown man to his car.
"Tell me the truth—who are you really?" Almondo demanded. He couldn't believe this man had stayed loyal for a decade without reason.
"I am who I am, Almondo. I've helped you for years without betraying you once."
"Cecilia might trust you, but I don't. I'll find out who you really are," Almondo snapped.
The man didn't flinch. "I am a man, just like you."
"Like me? What does that mean?"
"You don't need to know… not yet." With that, he slipped into a black car and disappeared into the city.
---
Across Tybis, inside the police archives, Detective Clinton was digging through ghosts.
The record room buzzed faintly with tired lights. Dust floated like tiny ghosts in the air as Clinton stood over a cluttered table stacked with folders, crime scene photos, and printouts from nearly a decade ago.
Officer Ramos entered, two coffees in hand. He saw Clinton's face and sighed. "Jackson case again? That thing's been ice-cold since I had hair."
"Frostbite doesn't mean dead," Clinton replied, eyes fixed on a file.
He opened a folder marked:
JACKSON FAMILY CASE – INTERNAL REVIEW – SEALED.
Inside:
Mr. Jackson, shot execution-style in his office.
Evelyn Jackson, wrists slit in a bathtub, pills scattered.
Mrs. Leslie Jackson, collapsed at the dining table, poisoned tea untouched.
"Father—executed. Evelyn—suicide. Mother—poisoned. Three deaths. One decade. And everyone called it coincidence," Clinton said flatly.
"Official report said embezzlement. Assets frozen. Grand Aura collapsing," Ramos reminded him.
"That's the story. Within 48 hours, the Jacksons went from elite to extinct. And just like that, Royal Empire swooped in to 'rescue' Grand Aura. Rich people don't save dying companies out of pity. They framed the Jacksons—and then erased them," Clinton replied.
He slid a school photo across the table: Junior Jackson, age 10.
"Only one kid survived. Went missing after the murders. Never found. Not dead. Not alive. Just… gone. The world forgot him."
"You think there's still something to find?" Ramos asked quietly.
Clinton didn't answer right away. He stared at a photo of Evelyn—one Janis had slipped him—before speaking. "Silence is loud when it's the wrong kind. This family didn't collapse. They were hunted."
---
Later, in his apartment, Clinton dug deeper. The clock ticked too loudly, the air too still.
He plugged a USB into his laptop. Screens lit up with sealed examiner reports, redacted coroner's notes, CCTV footage.
He froze on a video: Evelyn in a parking garage, meeting someone. The image was blurry—but as Clinton zoomed in, he caught it. A gold cufflink gleaming in the dark.
"Who the hell were you meeting, Evelyn?" he muttered.
He flipped open Grand Aura's acquisition files. Legal loopholes, board minutes, one note circled in red:
> "In light of the Jackson family's instability, this acquisition is in the best interest of Grand Aura's survival."
"Instability," Clinton scoffed. "One hell of a euphemism for murder."
He picked up a photo of the Jackson family—alive, smiling, whole.
"Somebody wanted your empire. And they got it. But not cleanly. Not quietly."
Clinton leaned back, mind turning like steel gears.
"They thought it was over. They thought the last Jackson vanished. They forgot… ghosts remember."