She thought she was finally giving her seven-year-old daughter the family they had both been missing. She was wrong.

“A psychotic break?” The words felt like acid on my tongue. “She locked Emily in a closet, Marcus!”

“I know what they’re capable of,” Marcus said rapidly, the sound of rustling papers audible through the receiver. “Margaret submitted fabricated psychiatric evaluations to Judge Henderson—an old family friend of hers. There is currently an Amber Alert authorization pending in Ethan’s name. If local police pull you over, they will forcibly remove Emily and hand her straight to Ethan.”

“Where do I go?” I demanded, watching the busy Seattle street as paranoia prickled the back of my neck.

“Meet me at the old maritime warehouse on Pier 48. It’s federal property—local cops can’t touch you there without a warrant signed by a federal magistrate. I’m leaving my office right now. Clara, trust no one. Ethan has private investigators all over King County.”

I hung up the phone, grabbed Emily’s hand, and pulled her toward the nearest department store. I bought two raincoats, a baseball cap for Emily to tuck her golden braids under, and a prepaid burner smartphone.

We took three different city buses, switching lines at random intervals to shake any potential tail, before finally walking down the rain-slicked concrete of Pier 48.

The abandoned warehouse smelled of salt water, diesel fuel, and rusted iron. The vast interior was dark, illuminated only by shafts of gray daylight filtering through shattered skylights.

“Marcus?” I called out cautiously, keeping Emily firmly behind me.

Footsteps echoed from the darkness behind a row of stacked shipping crates.

A tall figure stepped into the light, wearing a heavy overcoat. But as the shadows receded, my stomach plummeted into an abyss.

It wasn't Marcus.

It was Ethan.

He was holding an unlit cigarette, his face bruised from where he had fallen on the driveway yesterday, his eyes dark with predatory triumph.

“You always were predictable, Clara,” Ethan chuckled softly, stepping forward. “Did you really think calling my dear brother Marcus on a public line outside the bank wouldn't ping our surveillance? We own the telecom maintenance contracts for that entire district.”

Two burly men in black tactical jackets stepped out from the shadows behind Ethan, blocking the warehouse exit.

Emily gasped, clutching my leg.

“Give me the girl, Clara,” Ethan said, extending his hand. His tone was chillingly calm, like a businessman demanding a signed invoice. “Hand over the documents David left in Box 414, and I’ll make sure you get a generous monthly stipend. You can go live in Florida. Start a new life. Pretend you never had a daughter.”

I felt an ancient, feral rage awaken inside my chest.

“You killed David,” I spat, my voice echoing off the corrugated steel walls. “You staged his accident because he wouldn't let you steal his life’s work.”

Ethan smiled—a cold, empty, terrifying smile.

“David was weak,” Ethan said quietly. “He had a goldmine in his hands and wanted to give the patents away to public research hospitals for pennies. He was standing in the way of fifty million dollars. Just like Emily is standing in my way now.”

He gestured to the two men.