Rebecca Sloan disappeared before sunrise.
By six in the morning, police had searched her apartment and found it nearly empty.
No clothes in the closet.
No family photographs.
No food except an unopened bottle of water.
The apartment had been rented six months earlier under a name that apparently belonged to a dead woman in Delaware.
I sat in the family lounge at St. Catherine’s staring at a paper cup of coffee I hadn’t touched.
“She wasn’t Rebecca Sloan.”
Vincent stood near the window.
“Apparently not.”
“She helped me.”
Nobody answered.
“She sat with me when the insurance company denied Noah’s occupational therapy. She knew I couldn’t afford another attorney. She helped file the appeal.”
Damian stood across the room, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
The sight should not have distracted me.
Unfortunately, exhaustion had apparently destroyed my ability to compartmentalize.
“She wanted your trust,” he said.
“She had it.”
“That doesn’t make you stupid.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You’re thinking it.”
I looked away.
He knew me too well.
That bothered me.
Vincent received another call and stepped outside.
Damian sat opposite me.
“You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I’m consistent.”
“You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“My brother was almost kidnapped.”
“And starving yourself helps him how?”
I glared at him.
“You’re incredibly irritating when you’re right.”
“I’m aware.”
A tray appeared twenty minutes later.
Eggs.
Toast.
Fruit.
I stared at it.
“You ordered this?”
“Yes.”
“I hate melon.”
He removed the melon without comment.
I blinked.
“How did you know?”
“You leave it untouched every time breakfast is catered.”
That tiny detail unsettled me more than it should have.
“You notice what I eat?”
“I notice everything that happens around me.”
There it was.
The safer explanation.
Of course.
I ate half the toast.
Vincent returned carrying a folder.
“We found the connection.”
Damian stood.
“To Voss?”
“To Emily.”
My fork stopped.
Vincent placed the folder on the table.
“Rebecca—or whatever her real name is—accessed Noah’s rehabilitation assessments seventy-three times.”
“That’s her job.”
“Not these.”
He slid several pages toward me.
Financial authorization forms.
Emergency contact records.
My employment information.
Then one document I had never seen.
I picked it up.
“What is this?”
“Neurocognitive evaluation from March.”
I scanned the page.
Noah had shown increased recognition responses.
Improved auditory processing.
Possible episodic memory recovery.
I looked up.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“The report was removed from his active chart twelve hours after it was filed.”
My heart began pounding.
“Removed by who?”
“Rebecca.”
I stood.
“Why?”
Vincent placed another sheet on the table.
“Because of this.”
It was a transcript from a therapy session.
Noah had been shown photographs as part of memory stimulation.
Cars.
Buildings.
People.
One photograph had apparently triggered an extreme reaction.
I read the therapist’s notes.
Patient displayed elevated heart rate, agitation, repeated attempt at vocalization.
Then the therapist had written what Noah managed to say.
Truck.
Blue.
Bridge.
Dad.
My hands went numb.
“What photograph?”
Vincent showed me.
A blue commercial truck.
The logo on the side belonged to Great Lakes Maritime.
The company Damian was trying to acquire.
I looked at him.
“No.”
Damian said nothing.
“Noah’s accident was in Pennsylvania.”
“Yes.”
“That company operates in the Midwest.”
“Mostly.”
“What does this have to do with my parents?”
Vincent’s expression was grim.
“We pulled the original accident report.”
I knew that report by heart.
Black ice.
Loss of control.
Guardrail impact.
A tragic winter accident.
“No,” I whispered.
“The report says your father swerved to avoid an unidentified commercial vehicle.”
I remembered.
The other driver had never been found.
Vincent continued.
“Traffic cameras were unavailable due to weather. But a private toll camera recorded a blue tractor-trailer twenty-one minutes before the crash.”
I looked at the logo again.
Great Lakes Maritime.
My stomach turned.
Damian walked toward the window.
“Emily, there’s something I need to tell you.”
The tone frightened me.
“What?”
“I didn’t become interested in Great Lakes Maritime because of the ports.”
I stared at him.
“Then why?”
“Six months ago, one of my internal auditors found irregular shipments.”
“What kind?”
“Containers moving under duplicate identification numbers. False manifests. Payments routed through Voss subsidiaries.”
“Illegal?”
“Yes.”
“How illegal?”
His silence was enough.
I looked at Vincent.
He answered instead.
“Money laundering. Smuggling. Corporate bribery. Possibly worse.”
I looked back at Damian.
“And my father?”
“We don’t know.”
“What did he do?”
“Your father was a transportation safety consultant.”
“I know.”
“He consulted for Great Lakes Maritime.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No. My father worked independently.”
“He did.”
“For dozens of companies.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t I know about Great Lakes?”
“Because the contract was confidential.”
I stepped backward.
“How long have you known?”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
“Four weeks.”
The betrayal landed harder than I expected.
“Four weeks?”
“I was trying to verify it.”
“You knew my father was connected to the company that may have caused his death?”
“I knew there was a connection. I didn’t know what it meant.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I wasn’t going to hand you speculation about the worst night of your life.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“No.”
The immediate agreement stole some of my anger.
He looked at me directly.
“It wasn’t.”
I turned away.
My father had always carried a battered leather briefcase.
He had complained about work during the final weeks before the accident.
Not specifics.
Just tension.
People don’t like hearing the truth when the truth costs money, Em.
He had said that at dinner.
I had forgotten.
Until now.
“Oh my God.”
Damian moved closer.
“What?”
“The week before the accident, Dad called me.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I still had the spare key to their house.”
“And?”
“I told him yes.”
“Anything else?”
“He said if anything ever happened, I should remember where Mom hid Christmas presents when we were kids.”
Vincent stared.
“Where?”
“The attic.”
I grabbed my coat.
Damian blocked the doorway.
“No.”
I nearly screamed.
“Stop saying no to me.”
“You’re not going there alone.”
“It’s my parents’ house.”
“Which means Rebecca may know about it too.”
I froze.
He was right.
Again.
I hated that.
The house had remained empty since the crash.
I couldn’t bring myself to sell it.
Noah might someday recover enough to want to return home.
So I paid the mortgage, utilities, and taxes every month while pretending the place was merely an asset instead of the last intact piece of my family.
We arrived shortly before eight.
Damian brought Vincent and two security men.
I unlocked the front door.
The smell hit me first.
Cedar.
Dust.
Mom’s lavender candles.
Home.
For a moment, I couldn’t move.
Damian stayed behind me.
He didn’t touch me.
Somehow that was kinder.
“You okay?”
“No.”
It was the first time I had ever answered him honestly.
He nodded.
“Take your time.”
We climbed to the attic.
Mom had hidden Christmas presents behind old camping equipment.
I moved boxes.
Nothing.
Vincent searched the opposite wall.
Damian noticed scratches on the floor.
“Emily.”
A storage cabinet had been dragged recently.
We moved it.
Behind it was a loose wooden panel.
My hands shook as I pulled it away.
Inside sat my father’s leather briefcase.
I stopped breathing.
“Dad.”
The lock had three digits.
I tried Noah’s birthday.
Nothing.
Mom’s.
Nothing.
My own.
Click.
The briefcase opened.
Inside were documents, a flash drive, and a handwritten notebook.
I picked up the first page.
Great Lakes Maritime.
Shipment numbers.
Dates.
Names.
Then I saw one name repeated three times.
Adrian Voss.
And another.
Damian Hamilton.
I looked up sharply.
Damian saw it.
His face changed.
“What?”
I turned the notebook toward him.
My father had written:
HAMILTON MAY BE THE ONLY ONE POWERFUL ENOUGH TO STOP VOSS.
Below it was another sentence.
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, FIND HAMILTON BEFORE VOSS FINDS THE EVIDENCE.
Nobody spoke.
My father had known Damian.
Or known of him.
Before I had ever applied for Hamilton Holdings.
Before I had ever walked into Damian’s office.
Before Damian had ever hired me.
I looked at him.
“Did you know?”
His answer came immediately.
“No.”
Then Vincent’s phone buzzed.
He checked the message and went pale.
“What?” Damian demanded.
Vincent looked at me.
“Someone just triggered the fire alarm at St. Catherine’s.”
My blood froze.
“Noah.”
Vincent was already dialing.
Then he looked at Damian.
“Our security team isn’t answering.”