But how do we even get to that?
Mark is paranoid when it comes to shady men. After Duvall, his danger tingle got amped. He’s not that easy to bend anymore.
“What we do with him once we capture him is one thing,” I murmur. “But he takes his safety very seriously. I’ve never seen him open the door when someone rang. It was always Jessica. Even when someone needed his signature, she took the paper in and brought it to his office. The neighbors are vigilant, too. Whatever you have planned…”
Nathaniel lifts a sheet from the table and slides it to me: a satellite image of the neighborhood.
“This is where your grave is,” he says, pointing.
“What?” I take the paper.
“It just so happens…” He taps a black dot three blocks over, “that the State Historic Preservation Office found an indigenous gravesite nearby six months ago.”
Cassian flips to a printed email chain. The letterhead is the local university’s anthropology department. I catch the phrase: possible prehistoric mound disturbance.
“We were looking for a way to thread a lie into Mark’s life so we could do whatever you wanted,” Nathaniel continues. “We could pose as archaeologists wanting to dig because of research. We could claim an anonymous tip about bones. We could make Jessica invite us in. We could seed rumours so fear creeps in slowly. Either way, we have an in. Possibilities are endless with this little coincidence.”
“I don’t understand.” I swallow.
I read the printout harder. The article’s tone is bland and official: State funding for an exploratory dig; consultation pending with tribal representatives; restricted access to the site.
“Here’s the thing about land,” Nathaniel says. “You may own it on paper, but histories don’t always match deeds. Developers, councils, university researchers… None of them want the accusation of a cover-up. If the SHPO opens an inquiry, ittriggers protocols. Work stops. Journalists sniff. Contractors get cold feet. And once it’s public, every reporter and armchair historian with a camera goes looking.”
“It’s even better if it’s on private property,” Talon adds with a grin. “That’s when everyone goes crazy.”
I stare at them. “This feels like a… big operation.”
“It is,” Nathaniel admits. He pulls a flash drive from the pile and taps it once against his palm. “I mocked up a proposal already — standard GPR survey request, preliminary scope, the whole thing. Fabricated ground-penetrating radar scans that show anomalous subsurface reflections. Soil-sample reports with ‘inconclusive’ language. A university ‘research interest’ letter that looks plausible enough to make the SHPO take notice. If the paperwork looks authentic, institutions act on formality more than truth.”
He watches me. I can see the calculus: produce paper, make a call, let the bureaucracy do the rest.
“The public crucifixion is the blunt instrument,” he continues. “Make Mark look like he knew about the burial but ignored it to inherit the house after you. Paper trail, press, outrage. He loses reputation, partners, maybe his licenses. You get people digging up his yard, opening his life in public, and boom, turns out there was a burial. Just not the one everyone thought.”
“His crime will get out,” Cassian says.
“The scandal will go nationwide, baby,” Talon supplies.
“Anyway… That’s the public route,” Nathaniel says, folding his arms. His voice is flat now, businesslike. “There’s also the private option.”
“Private?” I echo.
“We use the dig as cover,” Cassian says. “We show up as researchers responding to a complaint. We render Mark unconscious, take paperwork and drives, plant accounting fraudon devices we keep to later ‘discover,’ scare Jessica off, and bring Mark here. Basement.”
A shiver claws down my spine. They’ve considered how each piece could work.
Both options gleam with terrible promise.
But I have so many questions.
“About the public way…” I breathe, hand at my forehead. “Wouldn’t state or federal agencies trace fabricated data?”
Nathaniel leans forward. “There are risks. GPR data can be faked, but the metadata needs cleaning. We’d scrub EXIF tags, use anonymized comms, burn phones we can’t trace. We’d spoof email headers, route uploads through throwaway accounts and Tor nodes. We’ve considered physical surveillance: cameras at the property, patrol routes, the local precinct’s usual checks. We’d need to intercept or distract those, which raises the stakes.”
I don’t understand half of what he says, but the admission is clear: the more complicated the fraud, the more opportunities for a slip.
“And if it unravels?” I ask. “If they trace it back?”
“That’s a risk we are willing to take,” Talon replies. “Public humiliation leaves a trail. But the consequences for Mark are immediate.”
