The rain began as a hesitant drizzle the moment Elara stepped through the final security gate of the prison, but by the time she reached the gravel parking lot, the sky had opened up in a violent deluge. The Hudson Valley was swallowed by a wall of gray water, the wind whipping through the skeletal trees with a sound like a thousand whispering voices.
Elara hurried toward her car, her boots splashing through deep puddles of icy water. Her mind was a chaotic storm of its own, replaying Julian's words with agonizing precision. Locker 402. The park bench. Sophia. Every word felt like a hook lodged in her skin, pulling her back toward a life she had tried to bury. She reached for the door handle, her fingers numb from the cold, when the world suddenly went still.
A hand, heavy and solid as a lead pipe, clamped down over her wrist.
Elara gasped, the sound lost in the roar of the rain. She spun around, swinging her heavy leather tote bag with all the desperate strength she had left. The man caught it effortlessly mid-air, his grip tightening on her arm. He didn't flinch. He didn't move. He just stood there, a dark monolith against the backdrop of the prison's glowing searchlights.
"Don't get in the car, Ms. Vance," the man growled. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, barely audible over the thunder, yet it carried an authority that made her knees weak.
"Let me go!" Elara hissed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Who are you? Did Sophia send you? I've already spoken to the police!"
The man released her arm but stepped closer, invading her personal space until she was pinned against the cold metal of her car door. He was tall—easily half a head taller than Julian—and broad-shouldered. He wore a dark, heavy trench coat that was already soaked through, the collar turned up against the wind. In the flickering light of the parking lot, she saw a jagged scar running through his left eyebrow and eyes that looked like they were made of cold, gray slate.
"Sophia Vane couldn't afford me," the man said, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the parking lot with a practiced, military precision. "And Julian... Julian doesn't even know I'm on the board yet. My name is Silas Thorne. I'm a Private Investigator. Or a 'predator,' depending on which Vane lawyer you ask."
"I don't care who you are," Elara said, her voice trembling. "I'm done with the Vanes. I'm done with the investigations. Leave me alone."
"You don't have the luxury of being left alone," Silas countered. He nodded toward the far edge of the lot, near the exit. Through the sheets of rain, Elara saw the familiar silhouette of the black sedan from this morning. Its headlights were off, but the faint glow of a cigarette ember flickered in the driver's seat. "That man isn't here to serve you a subpoena, Elara. He's a 'cleaner' for the Foundation. If you drive home tonight, you won't make it past the county line. There's a stretch of Highway 9 that's very quiet this time of night. Very easy for a car to... lose control."
Elara looked from Silas to the black sedan, the reality of her situation sinking in like a weight in her stomach. Julian hadn't been lying—at least, not about the danger.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
"I've been tracking the Vane money for five years," Silas said, stepping even closer. The scent of him was different from Julian's expensive cologne; he smelled of rain, tobacco, and something old and metallic. "I lost my career and my family because Julian decided I was a 'variable' that needed to be removed. I don't want your gratitude, and I don't want your help. I want the ledger."
"The ledger?" Elara shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I gave the FBI everything I had."
"You gave them what Julian wanted them to find," Silas said with a grim, humorless smile. "The real accounts—the ones that link the Foundation to the cartel's laundering in Singapore—are hidden in a digital vault that requires two physical keys. Julian has one. You have the other."
"I don't have anything!"
"Locker 402," Silas whispered, and the world seemed to stop again. "Julian told you about the locker, didn't he? He told you it was a gift. It's not. It's the second key. And the second he realized he couldn't manipulate the Feds anymore, he decided to use you as his courier."
Elara felt the bile rise in her throat. Julian hadn't reached out to protect her. He had reached out to use her as a human shield one last time. He was sending her into the line of fire to retrieve the very thing that would allow him to reclaim his empire.
"If I go to the police..." she began.
"The police are currently being funded by 'donations' from Sophia's shell companies," Silas interrupted. "You walk into a precinct tonight, and the man in that black sedan will have your location before you finish the paperwork. You have two choices, Elara. You can get in your car, drive toward Brooklyn, and hope Silas Thorne is wrong. Or, you can get in my truck, and we find a way to make sure the Vanes never touch you again."
Elara looked at the black sedan. The ember of the cigarette was gone. The car had begun to roll forward, slowly, like a shark surfacing for air.
She looked at Silas. His face was a mask of cold resolve. He wasn't a hero. He was a man driven by a darkness that matched Julian's, but his hand was steady.
"If you lie to me," Elara said, her voice suddenly hard, "I will find a way to finish what Julian started."
Silas didn't blink. He reached into his coat and pulled out a burner phone, handing it to her. "Fair enough. My truck is the black Dodge in the back row. Move fast. We have exactly four minutes before the sedan reaches the gate."
Elara didn't look back. She grabbed her bag and ran through the rain, her heart screaming in her chest. She had survived the cliff, but as she climbed into the passenger seat of Silas Thorne's truck, she realized the climb was far from over.
The hill was still there. And this time, she was climbing it with a man who wasn't afraid to let her fall.