Nora took me to a nondescript safe house apartment, a sparse, temporary space that offered little comfort. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic. I peeled off my wet coat, the chill settling deep into my bones.
My phone vibrated with an urgent security alert. My stomach clenched. It was a notification from my apartment building’s camera system.
A clear, grainy image appeared on the screen: Victor Garrick, standing in my living room, rummaging through my bookshelf.
“No,” I whispered, the word a raw exhalation.
Marcus’s men hadn’t just gotten in. They’d broken down my front door, the wood splintered around the frame. The camera feed showed my personal laptop bag tossed on the floor, my passport holder open and empty. My hard drives, where I kept all my personal files and photos, were gone.
Garrick moved out of frame, then back, a grim satisfaction on his face. He deliberately left open a drawer from my desk, scattering papers inside. As he turned to leave, the camera caught a glimpse of what he’d planted: official-looking documents, bank statements from some unfamiliar offshore account, complete with my name.
They weren’t just taking my life; they were fabricating a new one for me. One that proved embezzlement. One that would lead to my arrest if I ever tried to return home.
Marcus was systematically severing every tie, destroying every piece of my past. My home, my identity, my future. The only leverage I had left was the old tugboat, the secret Arthur Pendelton had entrusted to a brass key.
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