The word struck like lightning.
Daniel stepped back. “Read the letter. Do not speak to Victor Hale. Do not leave this apartment tomorrow unless a black car comes for you and the driver gives the phrase: Lake Michigan at midnight. If anyone else says Mr. Moretti sent them, they’re lying.”
I stared at him.
“This is insane.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But it’s also the truth.”
He tipped his head once, turned, and walked to a black sedan parked across the street.
I stood in the lobby until the taillights vanished.
Then I went upstairs and locked every bolt again before opening the box.
Inside was a phone.
Brand new.
Charged.
One contact.
N.
The envelope held a single sheet of paper.
Claire,
If you are reading this, I have already failed the only person I ever truly wanted to protect without hurting.
I am alive.
I let you believe I was dead because there were men waiting for any sign that I survived. If they had seen hope in your face, if they had heard it in your voice, if they had suspected for one second that the explosion was staged, they would have taken you to get to me. They would have used you slowly, creatively, and publicly.
I chose your grief over your torture.
I know what that choice cost you.
I know because I watched it.
Every Sunday at the cemetery.
Every shift you worked.
Every night your bedroom light stayed on until dawn.
Hate me if you need to.
You have earned that right.
But listen to me now.
The danger is not over.
Do not trust Victor Hale.
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