Chapter 5

"You lied to me." His voice was barely sound. "You've been lying to me this whole time."

Vivian clawed at his wrists. Her fingernails raked four red lines across his cheek. He released one hand, balled it into a fist, and drove it into her face. Blood burst from her nose, spattering the tiles.

He hauled her to her feet by her hair and dragged her out into the corridor. The sounds of the struggle moved away and finally faded.

Then: a shadow crossed the window.

The door swung inward and was locked again from inside.

Ethan Thorne stepped into the room.

I knew him. He was one of the scholarship students my father had funded years ago.

He moved to the bed without a word, flicked open a folding knife, and cut through the restraint straps in two clean strokes. When he saw how badly I was hurt, he didn't hesitate — he folded the blanket around me, lifted me into his arms with careful, deliberate movements, and carried me down the unlit stairwell to the back alley where a black SUV was waiting.

He settled me into the passenger seat, tucked a pillow under my broken leg, and fastened the seatbelt.

The engine turned over. We pulled out of the alley.

Ethan broke the silence first.

"Your father was good to me. I got back to the country too late to do anything for him. I won't let Elliot take you again."

Something inside me gave way. My eyes burned.

"Your mother's already been taken care of," he said. "The paperwork is done. She's on a private jet — she'll be at a clinic in Zurich by morning."

I watched the streetlights slide past the window.

"Find the men from eight years ago," I said. "The ones he hired."

Ethan nodded. He pressed the accelerator, and the car moved into the dark.

Six months later. A private estate outside the city.

I finally had the cast off. I made my way downstairs with a cane, one careful step at a time. The steel plate inside my leg ached with every shift of weight; the scar from the surgery ran long and cold along my abdomen. Every step cost me something.

Ethan was in the living room, a stack of folders spread across the coffee table.

I lowered myself into a chair and picked up the photograph on top.

"The ringleader from that night has been found," Ethan said, watching my face carefully. "He's working security at an underground gambling den on the south side."

My hand tightened around the photo. I stared at the face for a long moment. My fingers were trembling.

"Take me to him."

After dark, we drove to an abandoned warehouse on the south side of the city. The rolling shutter was pulled halfway down. Ethan parked on the street, and we pushed our way inside.

Two men stood guard at the top of the basement stairs. One shot out a hand to block us. Ethan caught the man's wrist, twisted it down, and drove his knee into the man's thigh, dropping him. The second guard swung for Ethan's head; Ethan stepped aside and brought his elbow down hard on the back of the man's neck. Both men went down and didn't get up.

We went down into the gambling den below. The space was packed — poker tables and roulette wheels, a low haze of cigarette smoke, the murmur of money changing hands.

Danny Alderton was in the corner, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, counting out a stack of bills.

Ethan walked over, slapped the money out of his hand, and let it fall to the floor.

Danny shot to his feet and went for the switchblade on his hip. Ethan kicked it out of his hand before it fully cleared the holster, then grabbed Danny by the collar and slammed him into the wall.

"You remember her?"

Ethan gestured toward me.

Danny turned. He looked at my face. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it, and the color drained out of him.

"That wasn't my idea. Someone paid me. I was just doing a job."

I stepped forward. I took the voice recorder out of my pocket and switched it on.

"Tell me exactly what happened. All of it."

Danny flinched back against the wall.

"Eight years ago, a guy in a suit came to me. He had ten thousand in cash. He wanted me to bring some guys and cut off a woman in an alley." He swallowed. "He gave me a camera. Said not to touch her — just tear her clothes and get it on film. He stayed at the mouth of the alley the whole time, directing. Once it was done, he left." He paused. "I didn't know his name then. But I saw him later on TV. His name was Elliot Forsythe."

I clicked the recorder off and put it in my coat pocket.

"Every word of that goes on record," I said. "If a single syllable was a lie, I'll make sure you spend the next several decades in a cell."

Danny nodded so fast it looked involuntary.

Ethan released him. Danny slid down the wall and sat on the floor, catching his breath.

We walked back out into the night air.

Ethan unlocked the car, holding the door for me.

"We have the recording," he said. "And I've finished going through your father's holdings." He got in and started the engine. "He protected himself. The core shares in Holloway Holdings were placed inside a family trust years ago — they can only be transferred with your biometric authentication and your personal signature. The agreement Elliot had you sign was worthless."

I watched the streetlights through the windshield.

"Tomorrow," I said. "We go to the company. And I take back what's mine."