“I saw him one day, and that put him back on my radar. So, we kept an eye on him. Found out one of our own was working with him. I interrogated the guy and found out Donovan was connected to a woman named Alice Brighton. The girls he picked up off the street? He sold them. To auctions. Ones she ran.”
I pause for half a beat, the weight of her name sinking deeper. It churns in my gut, mixing with smoke and blood and memory. My jaw tightens, and I stay quiet, but the pressure in my chest builds. Candace’s mother. Selling girls while her own daughter scraped pennies under a leaking roof.
Because I know Donovan knows more. About Cornelius. About that night. About my brother and sister. The truth burns under my skin. I need it. Need him alive long enough to speak it. When he does, when the lies fall away? I’ll be ready to carve the truth out of him, no matter what it takes.
A gasp breaks the silence. Olivia. “That’s who took me,” she says.
Her voice cuts through me, sharp as a blade. Alice. I feel it; a kick in the chest. Something inside me cracks wide open. Olivia. Candace. Cornelius. My siblings. It’s all connected. And it’s all coming back to her. Victor stiffens beside her, jaw clenched.
“When I was searching for you,” Victor says to Olivia, his voice tight, “one of the EMTs said she was supposed to be taking care of you. But she drove off. Disappeared.”
Olivia’s voice is quiet. “The doctor who stitched my arm. His name was Dr. Chamberland. I recognized him.”
Victor leans in, whispers something. Olivia nods. As Olivia settles into her food, I catch Victor’s eye and nod toward the hallway.
“Need a minute,” I murmur.
We step away from the others, toward the study. Just enough space to talk without being overheard.
“Where was she taken?” I ask.
Victor rubs a hand over his face. “She mentioned a warehouse. Near the riverfront. Where the shipping containers come in. Said it smelled like salt and rust. Said she could hear metal clanging every time someone moved.”
I nod. I know the area. Forgotten buildings. Rotting docks. Easy place to hide something. Or someone.
“We’ll check it out,” I tell him. “Might be something left behind.”
Victor studies me. “You think she’s still here?”
I don’t answer. But I am going to find out. When I do, I won’t let her slip into shadow again.
Chapter 53
Malachi
Weheadoutlessthan ten minutes later, the rumble of motorcycle engines cutting through the tension with the precision of a blade. East falls in behind me, Kyle and Nash flanking us as we carve through the quiet streets. Getting out of the neighborhood is a maze. Roads are blocked off near the blast site, detours winding us past scorched pavement, melted signage, and flashing barricades. Ash still floats in the air, catching in the headlights and clinging to my jacket, proof the day isn’t done burning.
The scent of smoke seeps into my lungs, gritty and bitter, laced with something metallic. The streets feel haunted, the asphalt bearing the memory of what it swallowed. A bitter reminder that this war we’re in isn’t over. Not even close.
When we finally reach the warehouse district, the silence is wrong. Thick. Unnatural. Even the wind feels hesitant, brushing past rusted siding with a kind of fear, unwilling to disturbwhatever still lingers here. Lights flicker above rusted doors. The old crane creaks in protest, its sound the groan of something trying to stay asleep. The air reeks of salt, oil, mildew, and something older. Something dead.
We fan out, boots echoing off crumbling concrete.
Footprints scatter through the dust, broken by long drag marks across the floor where someone unwilling had been hauled in. Blood streaks through it. Dried but still dark enough to make my stomach tighten. A smear glints beneath a swinging chain, the metal creaking softly, carrying the echo of weight it once held.
Olivia’s, maybe. Maybe not. I crouch, fingers brushing the metal. Cold. Damp. It smells of rust and old grief.
Everything inside me coils tight. Fury thrumming under my ribs, steady as my heartbeat. This place... it’s not just a scene. It’s a statement. A promise that this isn’t over.
My phone buzzes, the vibration slicing through the stillness. Sloane.
I answer. “Talk to me.”
“He’s awake,” she says. “Donovan’s awake.”
The air thins. My grip tightens. Time folds in on itself. The warehouse fades, replaced by the ghosts of a night I’ve spent years trying to piece together. My sister’s scream. My brother’s silence. The trail that went cold, a body abandoned in the snow.
“I’ll be there soon.”
