The Grave Photo

"Arthur is preparing to destroy you."

The words were almost swallowed by the wind, but Claire heard them. She wrapped her arms tighter around Aris's waist as the motorcycle roared onto the highway. The city lights were a smudge in the distance, a promise of safety and danger all at once.

They rode in silence, the rain lashing against them. Claire’s mind was a chaotic reel of images. The empty beds. The broken rabbit. The grave in Ohio.

And the woman in the woods.

Evelyn.

It couldn't have been her. Evelyn was dead. Sarah Kovac was playing her role, trapped in the house, raising the stolen boy.

So who was the woman in white?

They reached the city an hour later, weaving through the traffic of the George Washington Bridge. Aris navigated the bike with a desperate skill, taking them deep into Brooklyn, to a neighborhood of old warehouses and converted lofts.

He pulled into an alleyway behind a brick building.

"We're here," he said, killing the engine.

They climbed off the bike, stiff and cold. Aris led her to a metal door. He knocked—a specific rhythm. Three quick taps, a pause, two more.

The door opened.

A woman stood there. She was tall, with sharp features and hair cut in a severe bob. She wore glasses and a look of perpetual skepticism.

"Aris," she said. "You look like hell."

"Nice to see you too, Mel," Aris said. "We need a safe place. And a computer."

Mel stepped aside. "Come in."

Her apartment was a fortress of information. Monitors lined one wall, displaying news feeds, stock tickers, and police scanners. Stacks of files covered every surface.

"Claire," Aris said. "This is Mel. She's the journalist I told you about."

Mel looked at Claire. "The runaway accountant," she said. "You're trending on Twitter. Arthur's PR team is working overtime. They're painting you as a mentally unstable woman who snapped under pressure."

"I didn't snap," Claire said, pulling the phone from her pocket. "I woke up."

She placed the phone on the desk.

"We have evidence," Aris said. "Hard evidence. Kidnapping. Fraud. Murder."

Mel’s eyes widened. She sat down at the computer.

"Show me."

Claire connected the phone. The photos from the lockbox filled the screens. The birth certificate. The diary pages. The letters.

Mel scrolled through them, her face impassive. But her fingers were flying across the keyboard, verifying dates, cross-referencing names.

"This is..." she started, then stopped. "This is a dynasty killer."

She looked at the photo of the grave in Ohio.

"Evelyn Smith," she read. "November 14, 1992."

She pulled up a file on her own system. An archived newspaper from Columbus.

*UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN PARK.*
*Police suspect foul play.*

"There was no investigation," Mel said. "The body was claimed by a 'distant relative' and buried quietly."

"Arthur," Claire said.

"And the baby?" Mel asked. "Michael Kovac?"

Claire pointed to the missing person poster.

"He's David Vance," she said. "Arthur stole him. He stole his own illegitimate son to secure the trust fund."

Mel looked at the screen. She was quiet for a long time.

"This is enough," she said. "This is enough to bury him. But we need to move fast. Arthur knows you have this. He'll burn the world down to stop it from getting out."

"We need to find the girls," Claire said. "He has them. He's sending them to Switzerland."

Mel typed something. A flight tracking program appeared on the screen.

"There's a private jet scheduled to leave Teterboro in two hours," she said. "Flight plan filed for Geneva. Passenger manifest lists two minors. Lily and Rose Vance."

Claire felt the blood drain from her face. Two hours.

"We have to stop that plane," she said.

"We can't get to Teterboro in time," Aris said. "Not with the police looking for us."

"We don't need to get to the airport," Mel said. She turned the monitor toward them. "We just need to get this to the right people."

She opened an email client.

"I have a contact at the FBI. Public Corruption unit. He hates Arthur Vance."

"Send it," Claire said.

Mel hit send.

The progress bar filled. *Message Sent.*

"Now we wait," Mel said.

"We can't wait," Claire said. She looked at the clock on the wall. "My daughters are getting on a plane with a monster."

She grabbed Aris's arm.

"The motorcycle," she said. "We can make it."

"Claire—"

"If we don't try, they're gone," she said. "Forever. Like Michael."

Aris looked at her. Then he looked at the keys on the table.

"Let's go."

They ran back to the alley. The rain had stopped, but the streets were slick.

Aris kick-started the bike. Claire climbed on.

They tore through the city, running red lights, weaving through traffic. They hit the highway, the engine screaming as Aris pushed the old machine to its limit.

They saw the airport signs. *Teterboro: 5 Miles.*

Then 4.

Then 3.

And then, blue lights.

A police blockade.

They were shutting down the highway. Not for them. For a VIP transport.

A motorcade of black SUVs was sweeping onto the tarmac access road.

"That's him," Claire shouted. "That's Arthur."

Aris didn't slow down. He swerved onto the shoulder, bypassing the blockade, the motorcycle jumping the curb and landing hard on the service road.

They raced alongside the fence. Through the chain links, Claire saw the jet. The engines were spooling up.

The SUVs stopped by the stairs.

Arthur got out. He was holding Lily's hand. A nanny held Rose.

They were walking toward the plane.

"David!" Claire screamed, though he couldn't hear her.

David was there too. He was walking behind them, his head down. Defeated.

Aris skidded the bike to a halt at the gate. It was locked.

"Ram it?" he asked.

"No time," Claire said.

She jumped off the bike. She ran to the fence.

"David!"

He stopped. He turned.

He saw her. Clinging to the wire mesh, screaming his name.

Arthur saw her too. He didn't panic. He just moved faster, pulling Lily toward the stairs.

David looked at Arthur. Then he looked at Claire.

And then he looked at the plane.

He reached into his pocket.

He didn't pull out a phone. Or a wallet.

He pulled out a lighter.

The same lighter Arthur had used in the library.

He looked at the fuel truck parked next to the jet. The hose was still connected.

David smiled. It was a sad, broken smile.

"Safe travels," he whispered.

He threw the lighter.