The Town

She was no longer the CFO. She was a fugitive in her own life.

Elena drove the dented Corolla until the fuel gauge hovered near empty, the unfamiliar vibration of the cheap steering wheel a constant reminder of how far she had fallen. She needed to get to the address Kai had decoded. The real address of the 'Rehab' facility.

It wasn't in the Caymans. It was in Greenwich, Connecticut. Just across the state line.

She pulled into the wealthy enclave as the sun began to set, painting the snow in shades of violet and bruised blue. The town smelled of money—old money, quiet money, the kind that didn't shout but whispered commands that people obeyed without question.

She found the street. *Highland Avenue.* It was lined with stone walls and wrought-iron gates, the houses set far back from the road, visible only as distant, glowing windows.

She drove past number 422.

It wasn't a clinic. It wasn't a hospital. It was a sprawling, Tudor-style mansion with a three-car garage and a manicured lawn that defied the winter.

*Phoenix Rising LLC.*

Elena parked the car three blocks away, tucking it behind a hedge of arborvitae. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and walked back.

She couldn't just ring the bell. She needed a way in.

She walked to the gate. It was closed, a keypad glowing softly in the twilight. A security camera was mounted on the stone pillar, its red eye unblinking.

Elena hesitated. If she triggered the camera, they would know she was here.

Then she saw it. A white delivery van coming down the road. *Greenwich Florals.*

She stepped out from the shadows, waving her arms.

The van slowed. The driver, a young man with a bored expression, rolled down the window.

"You okay, lady?"

"I'm so sorry," Elena said, her voice breathless. "My car broke down just up the road. My phone is dead. I'm trying to get to my sister's house for... a surprise party. It's number 422."

The driver looked at her. At her expensive coat, her frantic expression. He glanced at the manifest on his dashboard.

"422?" he said. "I'm heading there now. Big order. Hydrangeas."

Hydrangeas. Seraphina's favorite.

"Could I... could I ride in with you?" Elena asked. "Just up the driveway? It's so cold."

The driver shrugged. "Hop in. But if the guard asks, you're the floral assistant."

"Deal."

She climbed into the passenger seat. The van smelled of potting soil and cut stems.

They pulled up to the gate. The driver punched in a code. The gates swung open silently.

They drove up the long, winding driveway. The house grew larger, looming over them. It looked like a fortress.

"Is this the Hawthorne place?" the driver asked.

"Yes," Elena said, her heart hammering.

"Weird family," the driver muttered. "They order fresh flowers every three days. Like they're trying to cover up a smell."

They pulled up to the service entrance. A guard was standing there, a clipboard in his hand. He wasn't *Guardian Protection Services*. He was private detail. Bigger. Meaner.

The driver rolled down the window.

"Delivery for Mrs. Hawthorne," he said.

The guard looked at the clipboard. Then he looked into the cab. His eyes landed on Elena.

She froze. She held her breath.

"Who's she?" the guard asked.

"New assistant," the driver said easily. "First day. She's got the arrangement layout."

The guard stared at Elena for a long, agonizing second. He looked at her coat. At her face.

Then he looked back at the clipboard.

"Fine," he grunted. "But be quick. She's in a mood today."

He stepped back.

The guard checked the list. 'Ah, for the Hawthorne residence. Go ahead.'