Locked Out

The police cruiser was cold, the backseat smelling of disinfectant and despair. Elena sat hunched against the hard plastic divider, her hands cuffed behind her back, the hospital bracelet still clutched in her right fist.

*Claire Vance.* *Involuntary Hold.*

If the woman in the tunnel was Claire... then the woman driving the getaway car was an imposter.

Elena closed her eyes, trying to reconstruct the face of the woman she had called "Aunt." The same silver hair. The same sharp features. The same voice.

But not the same eyes.

The woman in the tunnel—the real Claire—had blue eyes, clouded with cataracts and defeat.

The woman in the car had green eyes. Like Arthur’s. Like Julian’s.

Like Elena’s own, before the grief turned them dark.

"Hey, you back there."

The officer in the front seat glanced at her through the grate. He was young, chewing gum with an annoying rhythm.

"You got a lawyer? Or are you sticking with the 'my whole family is a crime syndicate' defense?"

"I need to make a call," Elena said, her voice raspy.

"You get a call at the station. Standard procedure."

He turned back to the road. The rain was letting up, the storm passing as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a world washed clean of everything but the truth.

Elena leaned her head back. She was trapped. Again.

But this time, she had leverage.

She had the bracelet. She had the diary in her pocket—miraculously missed in the chaos. And she had the knowledge that the woman driving her mother to "safety" was the most dangerous person in the entire equation.

Arthur had three children. Julian. Sarah.

And the one he never talked about. The one he hid.

*The third sister.*

The car slowed down. They weren't at the station. They were pulling into a gas station parking lot.

"Need caffeine," the officer muttered. "Don't go anywhere."

He got out, locking the door behind him.

Elena watched him walk into the store. She was alone.

She twisted her hands, straining against the cuffs. The metal bit into her wrists, reopening the cuts from the ductwork. She ignored the pain. She needed to get her phone out.

It was in her left pocket. The wrong side.

She contorted her body, sliding down the seat until she was lying on her side. She wiggled her fingers, reaching for the fabric.

She touched the edge of the phone.

She pushed it up, inch by inch.

It fell onto the seat.

She rolled onto her back, grabbing the phone with her cuffed hands. It was awkward, painful, but she managed to unlock the screen with her nose.

One bar of service.

She didn't call Marcus. He was probably dead or arrested. She didn't call the police. They were useless.

She texted the number that had messaged her earlier. The unknown number.

*I know who you are.*

She hit send.

A moment later, the reply came.

*Smart girl. But are you fast enough?*

*Where are you taking my mother?*

*Home, Elena. The real home. The one Arthur burned down before he built his little fortress.*

Elena stared at the screen. The real home.

Before the estate... before the money... Arthur had lived in the city. In a brownstone on the North Side.

The address was in the diary. Page 4. Line 19.

*1412 Astor Street.*

She looked up. The officer was coming back, holding a steaming cup of coffee.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket, wincing as the cuffs dug in. She sat up, composing her face into a mask of defeat.

The officer opened the door. "Alright, let's go. The captain wants to—"

He stopped. He looked at the back seat. At the empty space where Elena should have been.

No. She was still there.

But the door on the other side was open.

And standing there, holding a tire iron, was Julian.

He wasn't wearing his cashmere coat anymore. He was wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit, stolen from the garage at the estate. And he looked like he had walked through hell to get here.

He swung the tire iron.

It connected with the officer's head with a sickening thud. The man crumpled to the pavement, coffee splashing across his uniform.

Julian looked at Elena. His eyes were wild, bloodshot.

"Get out," he said.

"Julian?"

"I said get out!" He grabbed her arm, hauling her out of the cruiser. He fumbled with a key—a master key, probably stolen from the officer's belt before he hit the ground.

The cuffs clicked open.

Elena rubbed her wrists, staring at her brother. "Why?"

"Because Sarah isn't the only one who wants the money," Julian said, shoving her toward his car—a battered sedan parked in the shadows. "And because you're the only one who knows where the diary is."

"I don't have it," Elena lied.

"Don't lie to me!" Julian screamed, slamming his hand against the roof of the car. "I saw you take it! From the safe! Before the fire!"

He opened the passenger door.

"Get in. We're going to Astor Street."

Elena froze. "How do you know about Astor Street?"

Julian smiled. It was Arthur's smile. Cold. Predatory.

"Who do you think sent the text?"

He pushed her into the car.

He slammed the door. The lock clicked.

And as he walked around to the driver's side, Elena saw the sticker on the bumper.

*Kingsman Club Member.*

Julian wasn't just the son. He was the partner.

And she had just led him straight to the slaughterhouse.