"You need to leave Chicago."

Vincent said it without looking away from the photograph.

Elena stared at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Someone knows who you are. Someone is watching you."

"Then let them watch."

"This isn't a game."

"I know."

She stepped closer to his desk.

"My father died. My mother spent the rest of her life trying to prove he wasn't responsible. We lost our home. We lost everything."

Vincent looked up.

"Your mother?"

"She died four years ago."

He went silent.

Elena swallowed the tightness in her throat.

"She worked two jobs after the fire. Sometimes three. She never stopped trying to clear my father's name."

"I'm sorry."

"She died believing nobody would ever listen."

Vincent stood.

"I am listening."

"Now."

The single word struck harder than he expected.

Elena pointed toward the hospital transfer record.

"Your uncle knew I survived. He knew my name. He knew where I was."

Vincent did not respond.

"And you expect me to believe nobody in your family knew what happened to my father?"

"I can't speak for what everyone knew."

"Then stop asking me to trust you."

She turned toward the door.

"Elena."

She stopped.

"I can have Michael arrange protection."

"I don't need another Romano deciding what happens to me."

"Protection isn't control."

"Coming from you, that's difficult to believe."

She opened the door and walked out.

Vincent did not follow.

For the first time in years, he understood that ordering someone to stay would accomplish nothing.

Michael appeared in the doorway.

"Should I stop her?"

"No."

"Sir—"

"Keep someone nearby. Discreetly. She shouldn't know unless there's an immediate threat."

Michael nodded.

Vincent looked again at the photograph on his phone.

The sender had known exactly when Elena left the dining room.

Which meant the threat might be coming from inside the estate.

Across the house, Elena entered the servants' corridor.

Her hands were shaking.

She hated that.

She had imagined herself calm and prepared.

She had spent months learning about Romano Holdings, studying property records, memorizing names.

Yet one unexpected revelation had nearly destroyed her composure.

The man she had rescued was Vincent Romano.

And his uncle had lied about her death.

Elena entered the small room assigned to her.

She locked the door and pulled an old photograph from the lining of her suitcase.

It showed her father standing beside a red pickup truck.

He was smiling.

She was sitting on the hood, holding a paper cup of lemonade.

It had been taken two weeks before the fire.

"Dad," she whispered, "I'm getting closer."

Her phone vibrated.

A message from an unfamiliar number.

STOP ASKING QUESTIONS ABOUT ASHFORD.

Elena's breath caught.

A second message appeared.

YOUR FATHER DIDN'T LISTEN EITHER.

She stared at the screen.

Then she took a screenshot and saved it.

Fear would not make her stop.

Not now.

An hour later, the household had settled into uneasy silence.

The guests were gone.

Most of the staff had retired.

Elena changed into dark pants and a plain sweater.

She waited until the hallway was empty.

Then she left her room.

She had learned the estate's security schedule during her first three days.

At midnight, the guards changed positions near the east wing.

For approximately four minutes, the corridor outside the old records room was usually unattended.

Elena had come to the estate for those records.

She was not leaving without looking.

The hallway smelled faintly of furniture polish.

She reached a narrow door beside the library.

A brass plaque read:

ARCHIVES — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Elena removed a small key from her pocket.

She had copied its shape from the housekeeper's key ring during her second shift.

Her first attempt failed.

The second worked.

The lock clicked.

She slipped inside.

The archive room was smaller than she expected.

Metal filing cabinets lined the walls.

Old photographs and business ledgers filled wooden shelves.

Elena switched on a desk lamp.

She began with the oldest files.

2009\.

2010\.

2011\.

Then the year of the fire.

Her pulse quickened.

She found a folder marked:

ASHFORD PROPERTY — MAINTENANCE AND COMPLIANCE.

Inside were inspection reports, equipment invoices, and correspondence.

Most of the documents were ordinary.

Until she found a letter bearing her father's name.

Daniel Brooks.

Her fingers trembled.

The letter was addressed to Romano Holdings management.

It described blocked emergency exits, faulty fire suppression equipment, and unauthorized modifications to the warehouse's electrical system.

At the bottom was a handwritten note.

Immediate shutdown recommended.

Elena pressed a hand to her mouth.

Her father had warned them.

He had put it in writing.

He had tried to prevent the disaster.

She photographed the document.

Then she turned the page.

A second report had been attached.

This one stated that all identified safety concerns had been resolved.

It carried a signature resembling her father's.

But Elena recognized something wrong immediately.

Her father always wrote the letter B in Brooks with a distinctive open upper loop.

The signature on this report was different.

It had been forged.

She photographed that page as well.

Then she found a handwritten approval beneath the forged signature.

Authorized to remain operational.

The initials were difficult to read.

R.R.

Elena stared at them.

Richard Romano.

She was still studying the document when a voice spoke behind her.

"Looking for something?"

Elena spun around.

Vincent stood in the doorway.

He wore black pants and a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He looked neither surprised nor angry.

Elena quickly placed the report behind her back.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I."

He entered the room.

"That's an interesting place to spend the night."

She said nothing.

Vincent glanced at the open filing cabinet.

"Ashford."

Elena lifted her chin.

"You said you wanted to know the truth."

"I do."

"Then stop standing in my way."

He approached the desk.

"Show me what you found."

"Why?"

"Because if my uncle forged a safety report, I want proof."

Elena hesitated.

Then she handed him the document.

Vincent studied the signatures.

His expression darkened.

"That's not your father's handwriting?"

"No."

"You're certain?"

"I watched him sign school forms, birthday cards, checks, everything. I know his handwriting."

Vincent looked at the approval.

"R.R."

"Your uncle."

"Possibly."

Elena stared at him.

"You're still defending him?"

"I'm telling you what we can prove."

She snatched the paper back.

"My father tried to shut down that warehouse. Somebody forged his signature. Then he died."

Vincent stepped closer.

"And if we're going to expose whoever did it, we need evidence they can't dismiss."

Elena looked into his eyes.

For the first time, she saw something beyond authority.

Determination.

Anger.

Perhaps even shame.

"Why should I believe you'll help me?" she asked.

Vincent was silent for a moment.

Then he reached into his pocket and placed his phone on the desk.

He showed her the threatening message.

THE GIRL SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD.

Elena stared.

"Who sent that?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd refuse protection."

She looked at the photograph attached to the message.

It had been taken from an angle overlooking the estate's front entrance.

A place accessible only to household staff and security.

Elena's skin turned cold.

"Someone inside the house took that."

"Yes."

Vincent locked the archive door from the inside.

Elena immediately stiffened.

"Unlock it."

He did.

Without argument.

Then he stepped away from the door.

"I'm not keeping you here," he said. "But I need you to understand something."

"What?"

"Whoever wanted you dead fifteen years ago may have just discovered you're standing in my house."

Elena looked down at the forged report.

A terrible thought occurred to her.

"What if they already knew?"

Vincent frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"What if they knew I was coming?"

Before he could answer, Elena's phone vibrated again.

Another message.

This time, it contained a photograph of her standing inside the archive room.

Taken only moments earlier.

Below it were five words.

PUT THE FILE BACK, ELENA.

She slowly raised her eyes toward the ceiling.

A tiny red indicator light blinked above the filing cabinets.

Someone had been watching them the entire time.