Margot did not scream.
She backed toward the wall and held the phone against her chest.
The hallway outside her apartment remained lit.
That meant the building had power.
Only her unit was dark.
She heard movement near the kitchen.
One step.
Then another.
Margot’s hand closed around the nearest object she could find—a heavy ceramic lamp.
“Don’t.”
A man’s voice.
Margot froze.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
The kitchen window opened.
Cold air rushed inside.
By the time Margot reached it, whoever had been there was gone.
She called Desmond.
He arrived eleven minutes later.
Not alone.
Two security men checked the apartment while Desmond stood in the living room examining the photograph.
Margot watched him.
“You know him.”
Desmond did not deny it.
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“My father.”
Margot looked at the photograph again.
Desmond sat on the edge of a chair.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he touched the cracked watch.
“My father gave me this.”
“The watch?”
“Yes.”
“He died?”
“Years ago.”
Margot waited.
Desmond rarely volunteered anything personal.
“The company on the debt contracts,” he continued, “was created during his time. It was intended to purchase distressed business loans.”
“To help people?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Desmond would not rewrite history to make his family kinder.
“It was profitable. Sometimes brutally so.”
Margot appreciated the honesty.
“But it was closed?”
“I closed it.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want it.”
Desmond looked at the photograph.
“Someone apparently did.”
Margot sat opposite him.
“And the message?”
Your boss cannot erase what he owes.
Desmond folded the paper.
“That’s for me.”
“They left it in my apartment.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s for both of us.”
He looked at her.
She refused to lower her eyes.
“You don’t get to turn me into luggage you move somewhere safe while you solve this.”
“I was going to suggest exactly that.”
“I know.”
“You were kidnapped three days ago.”
“I remember.”
“Someone entered your home today.”
“I remember that too.”
“Then perhaps this is not the moment to argue.”
“It’s exactly the moment.”
Desmond’s jaw tightened.
Margot stood.
“For fourteen months, I’ve organized your life. I know every department, every schedule, every meeting that was moved for no stated reason. I know which people call through private lines and which people suddenly stop appearing. If somebody has been using your organization, I might have seen something.”
“You may also become a target again.”
“I already am.”
That ended it.
Desmond hated that it ended it.
But it did.
They returned to the tower.
For the next two days, Margot reconstructed fourteen months of schedules.
She remembered meetings that had seemed insignificant.
Deliveries.
Warehouse inspections.
Changes requested through Warren’s office.
One pattern emerged.
Every six weeks, Ambrose had asked Margot to clear a two-hour block in Desmond’s calendar.
Margot confronted him.
“What happened during these?”
Ambrose examined the dates.
“I met an auditor.”
“Name?”
“Calder Voss.”
Desmond looked up sharply.
Margot noticed.
“Who’s Calder Voss?”
Ambrose sat down.
“A lawyer who worked for Desmond’s father.”
The room changed.
Desmond’s face became unreadable.
“He’s dead.”
Ambrose shook his head.
“No.”
“You told me he died.”
“I told you I heard he died.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
Exactly when the company had supposedly been dissolved.
Margot looked between them.
“Find him.”
They did.
Not in the city.
Not under Calder Voss.
But under a holding company that owned a modest house two states away.
Desmond did not go personally.
He sent investigators.
The house was empty.
Inside were filing cabinets.
Records.
Loan portfolios.
Photographs.
And copies of internal Ror documents stretching back seven years.
Someone had been watching.
Collecting.
Waiting.
Among the documents was a list.
Twelve names.
The same twelve employees Ambrose had exposed to Warren.
Margot’s name had a circle around it.
Beside it were two handwritten words.
Closest access.
Margot understood before Desmond said anything.
“They didn’t choose me because of three hundred dollars.”
“No.”
“They chose me because I work for you.”
“Yes.”
The debt had merely been an excuse.
A pressure point.
The objective was access.
Desmond’s office.
His schedules.
His records.
Perhaps Desmond himself.
Margot felt sick.
“Why didn’t they ask me for information?”
“Because they hadn’t reached that stage.”
The warehouse had been preparation.
Fear first.
Then leverage.
Then demands.
Desmond walked to the window.
Margot studied his reflection.
“You blame yourself.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He turned.
Few people spoke to him that way.
Margot had discovered she could.
“They came after me because I was close to you,” she said. “That isn’t the same as you sending them.”
“I built the organization they entered.”
“And you’re tearing their access out now.”
“That doesn’t undo Warehouse 9.”
“No.”
Margot stepped closer.
“But I’m standing here.”
Desmond’s gaze fell to her wrists.
The marks were fading.
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Margot noticed his watch.
“Why did it stop?”
Desmond looked down.
“The night my father died.”
“You never repaired it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His thumb moved over the cracked crystal.
“Because some things should remain broken long enough to remind you what they cost.”
Margot thought of her little finger.
The notes she could no longer reach.
“I used to think that.”
He looked at her.
“About your hand?”
She nodded.
“Then I played Delphine’s piano.”
“And?”
“I discovered music doesn’t care if one note is missing.”
Desmond said nothing.
Margot smiled faintly.
“You just keep going.”
The telephone rang.
Ambrose answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then lowered the receiver.
“Warehouse 9 is burning.”
Desmond and Margot looked at each other.
Someone was destroying evidence.
But whoever had started the fire had made one mistake.
The ivory contracts were no longer there.
They were in Desmond Ror’s coat.
And Margot suddenly remembered something else.
“The bottle.”
Desmond frowned.
“What bottle?”
“The liquor Boon dropped.”
“Yes.”
“It was sitting on the contracts.”
“So?”
Margot’s eyes widened.
“No. Not on mine. On theirs. Boon was carrying their contracts.”
Desmond understood.
“Why would a collector carry proof of his own debt?”
“Unless he’d been told to bring it.”
Desmond immediately called Merl.
No answer.
Sunny.
Nothing.
Boon.
The call connected.
Breathing.
Then Boon whispered two words.
“They took Sunny.”
The line went dead.