Chapter 11
The synthesized voice hung in the damp air of the car cabin, echoing against the windshield wipers as they beat a steady, frantic rhythm against the glass. Elena's hands tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles ached. The highway stretched out ahead of her, a ribbon of wet asphalt reflecting the neon glow of roadside billboards, but the temptation to turn back gnawed at the edges of her resolve.
"Who is this?" Elena demanded, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "If this is the FBI, identify yourself."
"The FBI doesn't know half of what Marcus hid in those walls, Mrs. Reynolds," the distorted voice replied smoothly. "And they certainly don't know who visited your penthouse while the agents were busy hauling your husband away. You left the balcony door unlocked."
The call abruptly disconnected, leaving a flat, rhythmic dial tone humming through the speakers before cutting to silence.
Elena stared at the dashboard display, her foot hovering between the gas pedal and the brake. Turning back meant walking straight back into a crime scene, potentially facing rogue operatives from the Apex syndicate or federal agents realizing she had fled. But continuing on to her father's suburban house meant leaving her home—and whatever secrets remained inside—unguarded.
She pulled her sedan onto the shoulder of the highway, hazard lights blinking amber against the dark rain. Her mind raced back to the penthouse: the marble table, the spilled wine, the open safe, and the balcony overlooking the dizzying fifty-story drop to the city below. If someone was in her kitchen, it wasn't the police. Miller and his team had cleared every room before they left.
With a sharp intake of breath, Elena shifted the car into reverse, executed a risky U-turn across the empty emergency lane, and headed back toward the city skyline.
Thirty minutes later, her sedan glided back into the sub-basement parking garage of the luxury high-rise. She bypassed the main lobby, using her private keycard to access the freight elevator that led directly up to the penthouse service entrance. The elevator ride felt agonizingly slow, the metal cage vibrating with every floor it cleared.
When the doors slid open with a soft chime, the penthouse was pitch black, save for the ambient city light bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and ozone.
Elena stepped out of the service vestibule into the kitchen. The marble countertops were still littered with the remains of their anniversary dinner—the plates, the silverware, and the crimson puddle of spilled wine. But standing by the kitchen island, silhouetted against the glowing cityscape, was a figure holding a glass of Marcus's expensive scotch.
It wasn't a federal agent. And it wasn't Sarah.
May you like
The man turned slowly as Elena stepped into the light, his tailored gray suit immaculate despite the stormy night. He was holding a small, silver hard drive—the one Marcus had hidden inside the secondary panel of the kitchen sink.
"You shouldn't have come back, Elena," Julian said softly, his familiar, charming smile failing to reach his cold, calculating eyes. "Marcus always did have terrible taste in security systems."
