**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 4: Threads of Vengeance**
Willow Creek, California
July 2018
The bungalow's back porch overlooked nothing worth seeing—just a chain-link fence, a strip of dry grass, and the rear parking lot of the feed store. Alex sat on the top step anyway, elbows on his knees, watching the sky turn the color of bruised peaches. A cold bottle of water sweated in his right hand. His phone lay face-down beside him. It had buzzed twice in the last hour. Both calls from numbers with D.C. area codes. He hadn't answered either.
Mark's truck rumbled into the driveway just after seven. He climbed out carrying two paper bags from the liquor store and a greasy white sack from the taqueria on Elm.
"Figured you'd be brooding," Mark said, dropping onto the step next to him. "Brought reinforcements. Carne asada burritos and cheap bourbon. The breakfast of champions."
Alex took the offered bottle without looking. "You're enabling me."
"I'm surviving you." Mark unwrapped his burrito, took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "So. You gonna tell me what the plan is, or do I have to guess?"
Alex twisted the cap off the bourbon, took a measured swallow. The burn was familiar—cleaner than rotgut in the 'Stan, smoother than the stuff his father used to keep in the study. He handed the bottle back.
"Victor Kane," he said.
Mark nodded like he'd expected it. "Figured."
"Tell me everything you know. No filter."
Mark wiped salsa from his chin with the back of his hand. "Where do you want to start? The surface-level bullshit or the stuff people whisper about when the bar's almost empty?"
"Both."
Mark exhaled through his nose. "Okay. Surface: Victor came to town maybe ten years ago. Started small—flipping houses, buying up distressed properties after the crash. Smart. Ruthless. Knew exactly when to pull the trigger on a foreclosure. Built a little empire. Now he owns half the commercial strip downtown, three apartment complexes, and most of the undeveloped land east of the highway. Sits on the planning commission. Donates to every Little League team and church picnic. Everyone calls him 'generous.'"
Alex's eyes stayed on the horizon. "And the whispers?"
Mark lowered his voice even though they were alone. "He doesn't just buy foreclosures—he engineers them. Pressure on the bank appraisers. Backroom deals with county officials. Couple years back, old man Whitaker lost his almond orchard to 'unpaid taxes.' Taxes he'd paid on time for forty years. Next month the county rezoned it commercial. Victor put up a strip mall six months later. Whitaker's in a trailer park in Visalia now. Drinks himself to sleep every night."
Alex's fingers tightened around the water bottle until the plastic crinkled. "Evidence?"
"None that'll hold in court. People are scared. Victor's got lawyers on retainer who make the county attorney look like a public defender. And he's married to Victoria. That buys him a lot of goodwill. Or at least silence."
Alex was quiet for a long minute. Then: "Who's digging?"
Mark raised an eyebrow. "You mean who's already poking around?"
"Yeah."
"Lydia Sullivan. Reporter for the Valley Tribune. She's been sniffing around Victor's deals for about a year. Wrote a piece last spring on the Whitaker thing—didn't name names, but everyone knew. Victor sued for defamation. Case got tossed, but Lydia's been quieter since. Still digging, though. Just smarter about it."
Alex nodded once. "Where do I find her?"
"Usually at the library on Thursdays. Researches there because the Tribune's Wi-Fi sucks. Or at The Rusty Nail after deadline. She drinks whiskey neat and hates small talk."
Alex stood, brushed dust off his jeans. "Thanks."
Mark looked up at him. "You're really doing this."
Alex met his eyes. "I already started."
The Rusty Nail smelled like spilled beer, old wood, and the ghost of a thousand bad decisions. Neon buzzed over the bar. A jukebox played Merle Haggard low enough that conversation was still possible.
Lydia Sullivan sat alone at the far end, red hair pulled into a messy knot, laptop open in front of her, a half-empty glass of amber liquid beside it. She wore a faded denim jacket over a black T-shirt. No makeup. No pretense. When Alex approached, she didn't look up right away—just kept typing.
"Seat's taken," she said without lifting her eyes.
Alex pulled out the stool anyway. "I'm not here to hit on you."
That got her attention. She glanced sideways, sizing him up in one practiced sweep—boots to scar to steady gaze. "Then why are you sitting in my light?"
"Mark Reilly said you're the only person in this town who isn't afraid of Victor Kane."
Lydia's mouth curved—just a fraction, not quite a smile. "Mark talks too much." She closed the laptop halfway. "And you are?"
"Alex Thorne."
Her eyebrows lifted a millimeter. Recognition flickered, then curiosity. "The prodigal son. Heard you were back. Didn't expect you to walk into a dive bar looking for trouble."
"I'm not looking for trouble," Alex said. "I'm looking for facts."
She studied him another beat. Then she pushed the laptop the rest of the way closed. "Buy me another drink and maybe I'll share a few."
Alex signaled the bartender. Another whiskey for her, water for him. When the drinks arrived, Lydia took a slow sip, eyes never leaving his face.
"Ask," she said.
"Victor's foreclosures. How many are dirty?"
"Dirty?" She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Try rotten. At least eleven in the last four years that I can prove—paper trail, witness statements, inconsistencies in county records. Probably double that I can't. He's got friends in the assessor's office who backdate paperwork. Friends in the bank who delay loan modifications just long enough for default. And when people fight back…" She shrugged. "They lose their jobs. Their kids get hassled at school. Their trucks get keyed. Coincidences, of course."
Alex's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes went colder. "You have names? Dates? Documents?"
Lydia tilted her head. "Why do you care, Captain Thorne? You've been gone eight years. This isn't your fight."
"It became my fight the day Victor Kane bought Mark Reilly's family farm out from under them."
She considered that. "Personal, then."
"Very."
Lydia drummed her fingers on the bar once, twice. "I don't hand over my work to strangers. Even tall, scary strangers with medals."
"I'm not asking for charity," Alex said. "I'm offering a trade."
Her eyes narrowed. "What could you possibly have that I want?"
"Access," he said. "Victor's not careful when he thinks no one's watching. I can get close. Closer than you ever could."
Lydia stared at him for a long moment. Then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a thumb drive, and slid it across the bar.
"Everything I've got that's safe to share. Bank records, property transfers, emails I shouldn't have. Don't lose it. Don't copy it. Don't get caught with it."
Alex pocketed the drive without looking at it. "I won't."
She leaned in slightly. "One more thing. If you're really going after him, understand this: Victor doesn't fight fair. He fights to win. And he doesn't leave witnesses."
Alex met her gaze. "Neither do I."
For the first time, Lydia smiled—small, sharp, approving. "Then maybe we'll get along just fine."
Outside, the night air was warm and smelled of cut hay. Alex walked back to the bungalow under streetlights that flickered like they were tired of trying. He didn't look back.
Inside, he plugged the drive into his old laptop. Files opened one after another: spreadsheets, scanned documents, grainy photos of property signs with Victor's company logo.
He read until three in the morning.
When he finally closed the screen, the bourbon bottle was empty and the first gray light was creeping under the blinds.
Alex stood, stretched until his spine popped, then walked to the window. He looked out at the sleeping town.
Somewhere up on Crestview Hill, Victor Kane was probably asleep in silk sheets beside a woman who once wore Alex's ring.
Alex's reflection stared back at him in the glass—scarred jaw, steady eyes, no trace of the boy who'd once begged not to be sent away.
He spoke to the empty room, voice low and even.
"Soon."
(End of Chapter 4)