THE MAFIA BOSS FOUND HIS MAID TREMBLING BESIDE A BLOODSTAINED CABINET, BUT ONE HIDDEN MESSAGE SUGGESTED DANGER WAS ALREADY INSIDE HIS HOME.

I watched Celeste Arden say she knew where my sister was. Then I watched the news replay the statement three times as if repetition could turn a threat into a fact.

Dr. Hart reached for the remote. "You shouldn't have to see this."

"Don't turn it off."

Celeste stood beneath the black iron gates of Blackthorn House, wearing a pearl-colored coat and an expression of perfect concern. Reporters shouted questions. She ignored most of them and spoke about protecting the legacy of Henry Vale, about Ronan's grief, and about the danger of outsiders exploiting a vulnerable man.

I was the outsider. She didn't have to say my name.

When a reporter asked where Camila Reyes was, Celeste lowered her eyes. "I hope the proper authorities can bring her home soon."

There it was. She had implied she knew everything while saying almost nothing that could be challenged. I had spent enough time watching powerful people speak to recognize the trick.

"She lied," I said.

Dr. Hart studied the screen. "Or she's frightened."

"She doesn't look frightened."

"The most frightened people sometimes learn to look the calmest."

I wasn't sure I wanted to believe that.

Ronan called ten minutes later. His voice was clipped, but it steadied when I answered.

"I saw the broadcast," he said. "Celeste knows how to make a story stick."

"Was she always like this?"

"No. That's the worst part."

He told me the special board meeting had been moved to Blackthorn House. Grant was inviting foundation donors and selected journalists to a reception immediately afterward. The purpose, Ronan said, was obvious: announce his removal in public before he could fight it in private.

"You shouldn't come," he added.

"That's exactly why I'm coming."

"Elena—"

"If Celeste knows where Camila is, I'm going to make her say it to my face."

There was a pause. "Then I'll send a car with a driver I know personally. Dr. Hart should come too, if she's willing. Bring copies of the records, but leave the originals somewhere safe."

He wasn't telling me to disappear. He was asking me to arrive prepared. The difference mattered.

We returned after dark. Blackthorn House blazed with chandeliers. A line of expensive cars curved through the drive, their tires whispering over wet gravel. Florists had filled the entrance hall with white roses. Waiters circulated with silver trays, and classical music floated from the ballroom.

It was strange to see a house that had nearly killed me dressed for a celebration.

I wore a navy dress Dr. Hart had found in the clinic's donation cupboard. It fit well enough, and a scarf hid the bruise near my collarbone. My injured hand remained bandaged. I had no jewels except the silver pendant Camila gave me when I turned twenty-one, a little bluebird on a chain.

At the entrance, a guard held out his arm. "Staff use the back."

"She's my guest," Ronan said.

He appeared at the foot of the grand staircase in a black suit, looking tired but impossibly composed. His gaze moved from my face to the bandage, then returned to the guard.

"Her name is Elena Reyes. Make sure everyone knows it."

The guard stepped aside. I felt the eyes of several guests turn toward us. Ronan offered his arm, but didn't insist when I hesitated. After a second, I took it.

"You know they're staring," I murmured.

"They were staring before we entered. At least now they have something accurate to look at."

I almost laughed. For one breath, I forgot how scared I was.

Then I saw Celeste.

She stood near the marble fireplace with Grant Mercer, who was holding a glass of champagne. She was beautiful in the effortless, polished way magazine covers teach people to be beautiful: golden hair, graceful posture, diamonds catching the light at her throat. When she noticed me, something fragile crossed her face.

Grant's smile was colder.

"Ronan," he said as we approached. "I'm glad you decided not to make a scene."

"You invited journalists to my home to announce you're taking my company away," Ronan replied. "The scene belongs to you."

Grant looked at my hand. "Miss Reyes, I hope you're feeling better."

"Six stitches," I answered. "Since you asked."

A man beside us lowered his drink. I realized he had heard. Good.

Celeste stepped forward. "Elena, could we speak?"

"Tell me where my sister is."

Her eyes flickered toward Grant. "Not here."

"Then you shouldn't have told the whole city you knew."

Grant made a soothing gesture. "We're all upset. Let's not turn this into a spectacle."

"You already did," Ronan said.

Before the argument could continue, the ballroom doors opened and the board chair, a dignified woman named Margaret Ellison, announced that the trustees should gather in the music room. Ronan turned to me.

"Stay with Dr. Hart. I won't be long."

"Make them listen."

His mouth tightened with determination. "I will."

The men disappeared down the hall. Celeste lingered. She moved to my side as if admiring the flowers and pressed a folded card into my hand.

"Read it in private," she whispered.

"Why would I trust you?"

"You shouldn't. But your sister may not have until morning."

Then she walked away.

I waited until Dr. Hart joined me beside a window. The card contained an address near the harbor, a six-digit locker number, and a warning: THE PEOPLE WHO TOOK HER AREN'T WORKING ALONE. At the bottom was a single handwritten initial: V.

"Who is V?" I asked Dr. Hart.

She studied the card. "I don't know. But this address is beside an old shipping depot."

A server approached with a tray of sparkling water. She paused when she saw my face, then leaned close.

"Miss Reyes? There's a woman asking for you at the service entrance. She's wearing a blue coat."

My pulse jumped. "Where?"

Dr. Hart caught my sleeve. "It could be a trap."

"Everything could be a trap."

"Then we don't go alone."

She asked the server to bring the woman inside instead. Minutes passed. The server returned pale and empty-handed.

"She's gone," she said. "She left this."

It was a child's library card from a public school funded by the Vale Foundation, issued twenty-seven years ago. On the back, someone had written: HENRY KEPT TWO SETS OF BOOKS. THE SECOND SET IS NOT ABOUT MONEY.

Inside the card sleeve was a tiny photograph of Henry Vale as a young man. A woman stood beside him, one arm around his shoulder. She had his same sharp cheekbones and gray eyes.

When I showed Ronan later, he went completely still.

"My aunt Viola," he said. "She left the family years ago."

"Why?"

"My father accused her of stealing from the foundation. He said she moved abroad after the auditors found missing funds."

"What if she wasn't the one stealing?"

Ronan looked toward the music room, where Grant was speaking to several board members with a confidence that made my stomach turn.

"Then I've misunderstood my family for a very long time."

The board session began behind closed doors. Margaret allowed Dr. Hart to submit her report as an independent witness, but Ronan's lawyer cautioned that the fight wouldn't end that night. The petition remained active. Grant had supporters. And every donor at the reception knew how to repeat a rumor more quickly than an apology.

Half an hour later, Grant stepped onto a small platform in the ballroom. The orchestra fell silent. He spoke about stewardship, responsible leadership, and the difficult choices required when a family patriarch was gone.

"Until questions regarding Ronan's recent conduct are resolved," he announced, "the board has agreed to consider temporary safeguards over his voting authority."

A murmur spread through the guests.

Then Ronan climbed onto the platform beside him.

"Consider," he said into the microphone. "Not approve. And those questions now include whether foundation money was diverted through Bellwether Medical Services, an organization connected to Mr. Mercer."

Grant's face hardened. Cameras rose around the room.

"You're making reckless allegations," Grant said.

"I'm asking for an independent audit. I've also instructed my attorneys to seek a court order preserving every financial record."

He looked toward me. For a moment I thought he would say my name in some grand declaration. Instead, he did something better.

"An employee was injured in my home while trying to find her missing sister," he said. "I failed to notice the danger around my own staff. I won't repeat that failure."

I felt my throat tighten. He hadn't made me a symbol of his goodness or a prop in a speech. He had admitted his own responsibility.

Grant reached for the microphone. Ronan moved it away.

"The reception is over," he said. "Anyone who wishes to assist the investigation may contact my attorney."

People began speaking all at once. Reporters surged forward. Grant vanished through a side door. Celeste was nowhere to be seen.

Ronan descended from the platform and stopped beside me.

"Are you all right?"

"No," I said. "But I think that was the first honest speech this house has heard in years."

He smiled faintly.

Then a loud crack came from the service hallway.

The chandeliers went black.

Someone screamed.

A second sound followed, unmistakably sharper than the first.