The news of Walton Greave's death hit the safe house like a shockwave. Franklyn sat at the kitchen table, staring at the television screen, where a scrolling banner read "NicCore CEO Found Dead — Apparent Suicide." The reporters were already spinning the narrative—Greave's guilt-ridden confession, his final note, the tragic end of a titan. But Franklyn saw it differently. He saw a loose end being tied, a witness being silenced, a final act of the conspiracy playing out in real time.
Cole paced the room, his phone pressed to his ear. He was talking to a contact at the D.C. police department, trying to get access to the scene. Elizabeth sat beside Franklyn, her hand on his arm, her face a mask of controlled fury. Brenda had retreated to her room, unable to watch the coverage.
Rita arrived within the hour, her laptop already open, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "This is bad," she said, not looking up. "Pence's team is already spinning it. They've released a statement: 'Senator Pence is deeply saddened by the loss of his friend and colleague. He hopes that Mr. Greave's final words will bring closure to all those affected by the tragic events of 1997.' They're positioning Pence as the grieving survivor, not the co-conspirator."
Franklyn's jaw tightened. "He's using Greave's death as a shield. He'll say Greave acted alone, that he was manipulated by Greave, that he had no idea about the frame."
Rita nodded. "That's exactly the play. And with Greave dead, there's no one to contradict him. We have the recording, but Pence can claim he was just being polite, that he didn't mean what he said, that Greave was the mastermind and Pence was just a bystander."
Franklyn stood up, his knee cracking. "We need to find out if Greave's death was really a suicide. Cole, can you get us anything from the police report?"
Cole hung up and turned, his face grim. "My contact says the preliminary investigation is leaning toward suicide—a single gunshot to the head, a note in his handwriting, no signs of forced entry. But there are anomalies. The gun was Greave's own, registered to him, but it was found in his left hand. Greave was right-handed. And the note—it's typed, not handwritten. The signature is his, but the body of the note is printed."
Franklyn felt a chill. "Typed? A suicide note that's typed?"
"Unusual," Cole agreed. "They're checking the printer forensics, but it's going to take time. And the police are under pressure from Pence's allies to close the case quickly. They're calling it 'open and shut.'"
Rita looked up. "We need our own investigation. I have a contact at a private forensic firm—they do work for the Post. If we can get them access to the body and the note, they can tell us if it was a homicide disguised as suicide."
Franklyn nodded. "Do it. And I want to see Greave's financial records. If he was being blackmailed or threatened, there might be a paper trail."
The next 48 hours were a blur of phone calls, subpoenas, and frantic analysis. Rita's forensic contact, a woman named Dr. Simone Velez, managed to get a court order to examine Greave's body independently. Her preliminary report was explosive: the angle of the gunshot wound was inconsistent with a self-inflicted injury. The entry point was too low, the trajectory too steep. Greave had been shot by someone else—probably from behind, while he was seated.
Franklyn read the report three times. "So it was murder. Pence had him killed."
Rita shook her head. "We can't prove Pence ordered it. But we can prove it wasn't suicide. That changes the narrative. Greave didn't kill himself out of guilt—he was silenced. And that makes Pence look even guiltier."
Cole added, "The printer analysis came back. The note was printed on Greave's own office printer, but the time stamp shows it was printed at 3 A.M., two hours before the estimated time of death. That suggests the note was prepared in advance—either by Greave himself, or by someone who had access to his office."
Franklyn leaned forward. "Who had access?"
"His executive assistant, a woman named Marlene Cross. She's been with NicCore for twenty years. She's also been a personal friend of Pence's since the 1990s. She's the one who 'found' the body."
Franklyn stood up. "Then we talk to Marlene Cross. She knows something."
Reyes arranged for a federal subpoena to compel Marlene's testimony. But when the marshals arrived at her home, she was gone—her car abandoned at a rest stop on the Maryland border, her phone turned off, her bank accounts cleaned out. She had vanished into the same protective netherworld that had sheltered Brenda Mays before her.
Franklyn felt the walls closing in again. Every time they found a lead, it slipped away. Every witness was either killed or scared into silence. Pence was erasing the past, one person at a time.
But then, a break. Elizabeth, who had been quietly combing through Leonard Stark's journals, found a note that mentioned Marlene Cross by name. Stark had written: "Marlene is the key. She knows where the bodies are buried—literally. She told me she has copies of every suppressed document, every back-channel memo. She keeps them in a safety deposit box in Virginia, under her mother's maiden name. If anything happens to me, find her. She will talk."
Franklyn read the entry, his heart racing. Stark had known Marlene Cross was a potential ally. He had tried to reach her, but he had been killed before he could.
"We need to find that safety deposit box," Franklyn said. "It might be the only thing that can save this case."
Rita put her team on it. Within hours, they had located the box—a small branch of a regional bank in Alexandria, Virginia. The box was registered to "Margaret Cross," Marlene's mother. With a court order, Reyes's team opened it.
Inside were dozens of documents: NicCore's internal memos, handwritten notes from Greave, a copy of the FDA report that had been buried, and a series of letters from Pence to Greave, dating back to 1996. The letters were damning—they discussed "the Voss strategy" in detail, using coded language that was obvious once you knew what to look for. "The packaging issue" meant the swapped drum. "The quality audit" meant the suppressed report. "The promotional campaign" meant the political cover-up.
But the most explosive document was a single sheet of paper—a typed memo from Pence to Greave, dated October 1997, with the subject line: "Post-Trial Disposition." It read: "Once Voss is convicted, we need to ensure that no appeal gains traction. I have spoken to the appropriate parties. The appellate judges have been briefed. We are covered on all fronts. The only remaining variable is the chemist's wife. She knows too much. I suggest we monitor her closely and, if necessary, take appropriate measures." The memo was signed by Pence.
Franklyn stared at the memo, his hands shaking. Pence had not only orchestrated the frame—he had planned to silence Judith. The "appropriate measures" were a euphemism for murder. Judith had died of cardiac arrest in 2005, but Franklyn now wondered if that death had been natural—or manufactured.
Reyes read the memo and looked up, her face pale. "This is enough. This is direct evidence of Pence's intent to intimidate and possibly harm a witness. I'm taking this to the grand jury immediately."
They rushed the documents to the federal courthouse. Reyes presented them to the grand jury, along with Dr. Velez's forensic analysis and Brenda Mays's testimony. The grand jury deliberated for five hours.
At 9 P.M., the foreperson emerged with the indictment: Harold Pence, former Senator, was charged with conspiracy to obstruct justice, witness tampering, and conspiracy to commit murder in the death of Leonard Stark. He was also named as a co-conspirator in the murder of Walton Greave, though that charge was pending further investigation.
Franklyn received the news at the safe house. He sank into his chair, tears streaming down his face. It was not a full vindication—Pence had not yet been convicted—but it was the first time in thirty years that the law had acknowledged the truth.
But the fight was not over. Pence's legal team immediately filed for bail, arguing that he was not a flight risk, that he had deep ties to the community. Reyes opposed, citing the evidence of witness intimidation. The judge set a high bail—five million dollars—but Pence's supporters raised it within hours.
Franklyn watched the news coverage of Pence's release from custody. The former Senator walked out of the courthouse, his silver hair gleaming, his face a mask of defiance. He waved to the cameras and made a brief statement: "I have full confidence that the truth will exonerate me. These charges are a political witch hunt. I will fight them with every resource at my disposal."
Franklyn turned off the television. He felt a cold anger, but also a strange calm. Pence was out on bail, but he was cornered. The evidence was overwhelming. The trial would come, and Franklyn would be there to testify.
Cole brought him a cup of tea. "We're not done. But we've made it this far. That counts for something."
Franklyn nodded. "It does. But I need to do one more thing. I need to find Marlene Cross. She's the final piece. If she testifies, Pence has no escape."
Cole sighed. "She's gone underground. But I have a lead—a former colleague of hers who says Marlene has a sister in Tennessee. She might have gone there."
Franklyn stood up. "Then that's where we're going. Tomorrow morning."
The drive to Tennessee was long, through the Appalachian mountains and into the rolling hills of the Volunteer State. They arrived at a small town called Maryville, where Marlene's sister, Ellen Cross, lived in a modest farmhouse.
Ellen was a retired schoolteacher, wary at first, but she opened up when Franklyn explained who he was and why he had come. "Marlene called me last week," she said. "She was scared. She said she had made a terrible mistake by helping Pence, and now she wanted to come clean. But she was afraid they would kill her, like they killed Greave."
Franklyn leaned forward. "Do you know where she is now?"
Ellen shook her head. "She said she was going to disappear for a while, until the trial was over. She wouldn't tell me where. But she left me a letter—to give to you, if you came looking."
She handed Franklyn an envelope. He opened it, and inside was a handwritten note from Marlene: "Mr. Voss, I am sorry for what I did. I was a coward. But I am not a killer. I did not harm Greave—I found him already dead. I was there that night, and I saw the man who shot him. I can identify him. He is one of Pence's private security men, a former CIA operative named Alan Rourke. Rourke is the one who threatened me, who made me run. I am in hiding, but I will testify if you can guarantee my safety. Contact me through my sister. — Marlene."
Franklyn folded the letter and looked at Cole. "We have a new target. Alan Rourke. Pence's hitman."
Cole's face was grim. "I know the name. He's a ghost—no known address, no digital footprint. But if we can find him, we can flip him. He might testify against Pence in exchange for immunity."
Franklyn stood up, his heart pounding. "Then we find him. Before Pence does."
They left Tennessee and returned to D.C., the letter burning a hole in Franklyn's pocket. The pieces were falling into place. But time was running out. Franklyn could feel his heart weakening, each exertion a reminder of his dwindling days.
That night, as he lay in bed, he thought about Judith. She had been the first to see the truth, the first to gather the evidence, the first to risk everything. And now, thirty years later, her work was finally bearing fruit.
He closed his eyes and whispered her name. He did not know if she could hear him. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would finish what she had started.
The trial was coming. And this time, justice would not be denied.
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