PART 2: The federal prosecutor didn’t leave immediately.
The federal prosecutor didn’t leave immediately.
He stood beside me on the porch, staring at the report about the mechanic while the morning breeze rolled across Crystal Lake.
My mother and Amber remained frozen at the bottom of the steps.
For the first time in their lives, nobody was rushing to save them.
Nobody was writing a check.
Nobody was fixing their mistakes.
The prosecutor finally closed the folder.
“Ms. Campbell, I need you inside.”
I nodded.
Without another glance at my mother, I turned and walked back into the villa.
The massive oak door shut behind me with a heavy thud.
It felt like the closing of an entire chapter of my life.
Inside the library, four federal investigators were already setting up laptops and evidence boxes.
The room that once hosted my grandfather’s business meetings had become a temporary command center.
I sat at the head of the long mahogany table.
The prosecutor placed a photograph in front of me.
My stomach tightened.
The image showed the aviation mechanic.
He was lying beside a marina dock.
Dead.
A single gunshot wound behind the ear.
Professional.
Clean.
Deliberate.
“That wasn’t Brad,” I said quietly.
The prosecutor nodded.
“We don’t think so either.”
I looked up.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
The room became silent.
One of the investigators exchanged a glance with the prosecutor.
Finally he spoke.
“Your grandfather wasn’t just investigating Brad and Malik.”
A cold sensation crawled up my spine.
“What do you mean?”
He opened another folder.
Inside were dozens of photographs.
Corporate executives.
Investment bankers.
Private equity managers.
Politicians.
My breath caught.
Several of the faces were familiar.
I had seen them at charity galas with my grandparents.
People worth hundreds of millions.
Some worth billions.
“This is impossible.”
“We wish it was.”
The prosecutor slid a financial chart across the table.
“Your grandfather uncovered something much bigger than family embezzlement.”
I studied the chart.
The same offshore shell companies appeared again and again.
Money moved between dozens of corporations.
Hundreds of accounts.
Millions of dollars.
Then billions.
The scale was staggering.
“What is this?”
“A criminal network.”
I looked back down.
The chart stretched across multiple industries.
Real estate.
Shipping.
Construction.
Banking.
Technology.
It was everywhere.
“Brad and Malik weren’t leaders,” the prosecutor continued.
“They were participants.”
The realization hit me like a freight train.
My brother hadn’t been the mastermind.
He had been a pawn.
A greedy, criminal pawn.
But still a pawn.
“Someone above them ordered the crash.”
The prosecutor’s expression darkened.
“That’s our theory.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
I suddenly understood why my grandfather had created Project Reset.
Why he had hidden everything.
Why he had left instructions for me.
He knew he was being hunted.
And he knew his own family couldn’t be trusted.
I slowly opened the leather dossier again.
For the next several hours, investigators photographed every page.
Every wire transfer.
Every account.
Every forged signature.
Around noon, one of the agents rushed into the room carrying a tablet.
“You need to see this.”
The screen displayed live news coverage.
I immediately recognized the courthouse.
Reporters crowded the entrance.
News helicopters circled overhead.
The headline flashed across the bottom.
FEDERAL MURDER AND FRAUD CASE EXPANDS.
Then another headline appeared.
THIRD SUSPECT FOUND DEAD.
The room went silent.
The prosecutor grabbed the tablet.
“Who?”
The reporter continued speaking.
“Authorities confirmed this morning that a former financial consultant connected to several offshore corporations was discovered deceased inside a Manhattan apartment.”
Another witness.
Dead.
The prosecutor swore under his breath.
Someone was cleaning house.
Anyone connected to the conspiracy was disappearing.
The realization made my blood run cold.
The people responsible for my grandparents’ deaths weren’t panicking.
They were organized.
Efficient.
Professional.
And they still had resources.
A lot of resources.
The prosecutor immediately began issuing orders.
Phones started ringing throughout the room.
Agents moved with renewed urgency.
Then his phone rang.
The moment he answered, his face changed.
“What?”
The room froze.
He listened for several seconds.
Then he slowly lowered the phone.
“What happened?” I asked.
The prosecutor looked directly at me.
His expression was grim.
“They broke into your apartment.”
My heart stopped.
“My apartment in New York?”
“Two hours ago.”
Every nerve in my body tightened.
“Was anything taken?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The prosecutor stared at me carefully.
“However, the intruders ignored your jewelry.”
I immediately understood.
They weren’t thieves.
“What were they looking for?”
His answer came instantly.
“You.”
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Much smaller.
The prosecutor walked to the window overlooking the lake.
“They know you found the files.”
I stood slowly.
The investigators stopped working.
Every person in the room was now listening.
“They arrested Brad and Malik this morning.”
I said the words aloud.
“They couldn’t have warned anyone.”
“No.”
“Then somebody was watching.”
The prosecutor nodded.
“That’s exactly what concerns us.”
A terrible memory surfaced.
The convoy.
The armed contractors.
The SUVs.
The confidence.
The certainty.
Brad and Malik truly believed they were going to win.
Almost as if someone had guaranteed it.
Almost as if someone more powerful had been backing them from the beginning.
I walked toward the fireplace.
Above it hung a massive oil portrait of my grandfather.
For a long moment, I stared into the painted eyes.
Then something clicked.
A detail I had overlooked.
A tiny detail.
The pocket watch.
I reached into my jacket and pulled it out.
The antique gold watch felt heavy in my hand.
My grandfather never carried it without reason.
I carefully examined the back cover.
There.
A nearly invisible engraving hidden beneath decades of wear.
Three words.
Trust no one.
A chill ran through my entire body.
My grandfather hadn’t written that message for Brad.
Or Malik.
Or my mother.
He had written it for me.
Because whoever orchestrated Flight 404 might still be close.
Very close.
And for the first time since the arrests, I began to wonder if the next enemy wasn’t hiding somewhere across the country.
Maybe they were already inside the investigation.
Maybe they were already watching every move I made.
And maybe my grandfather’s final warning had only just begun to make sense.