Benjamin Wren stepping out of a black SUV behind a warehouse three towns over. Time stamp from last week. Another of him standing with Cole near the loading dock, heads bent close in conversation. In the third, they’re shaking hands.
Working together.
Fuck, I knew it. Or at the very least, I had a funny feeling…
Benjamin appears to be the kind of man who thinks evil doesn’t count if he does it with polished shoes and an attorney.
Cole is a blade somebody left in the rain too long.
Still dangerous.
Still useful.
Meaner for the rust.
Together, they could really be a bomb.
Under the photos are copies of bank transfers. Amounts high enough to turn my mouth hard. Shell company names. Land holding groups. One highlighted line tying back to one of Benjamin’s development entities.
I flip to the next page.
Property correspondence.
Preliminary acquisition language.
One clause is circled in red ink.
Subject property transfer contingent upon suspension or revocation of current operating licenses and distressed sale conditions.
The Hollow.
Benjamin isn’t just trying to choke us.
He’s waiting to buy the body once it drops. With the help of Cole.
Fuck.
“He paid him,” I say.
Jenson nods. “Not just for information. For pressure. For spectacle. For anything that makes you look like exactly what this town already fears you are.”
I keep reading.
Messages printed from a burner thread. No names, but I know Cole’s rhythm when I see it. Short. Surgical. Never more words than he needs.
Council angle is working. Keep heat public.
Need one more incident tied close to property. Not enough damage to trigger full investigation. Enough to reinforce concern.
Hayes won’t run. Push attachment.
Once sale goes through, balance clears.
Push attachment.
My fingers still on the page.
Aurora.
