CHAPTER 3: The Safehouse
Julian Miller’s workshop sat above an abandoned printing press on 4th Avenue. When Grace knocked the coded pattern Clara had noted on the back of the envelope, the heavy steel door creaked open by two inches. A man with sharp gray eyes, unkempt silver hair, and a worn flannel shirt stared back at her through the security chain.
"I’m Grace," she said, her voice raw. "Clara sent me."
The chain rattled off immediately. Miller pulled her inside and locked three heavy deadbolts behind them. The loft was a maze of server racks, stacked filing boxes, and corkboards crisscrossed with red yarn and faded photographs.
"You shouldn't be here," Miller said, handing her a ceramic mug of steaming black tea. "Nathan's team tapped your cellular signals ten minutes after you left the house."
Grace froze, setting the mug down. "My phone... it's tracked?"
"Of course it is," Miller replied calmly. He took her phone, removed the SIM card, crushed it with a pair of pliers, and tossed the device into a lined Faraday box. "You’ve been living in a panopticon, Grace. Nathan Vance doesn't leave loose ends. If he fled tonight, it means whoever called him on that burner phone is higher up the food chain. Someone panicked."
"Who called him?" Grace asked, her pulse quickening.
Miller pointed to the center of the largest board. A photograph of the city’s Deputy Police Commissioner, Marcus Vance—Nathan’s estranged older brother—sat pinned above a web of offshore accounts.
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"Your husband wasn't acting alone," Miller said somberly. "The law won't save us tonight. We have to outsmart them in the open."
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