Chapter 116
Lena's POV
Emily texted around four: How are you holding up?
Fine. Working. Normal day.
Got the phone data?
Yes. Haven't looked at it yet.
Want me to come over tonight?
Not yet. Need to see what's there first.
Okay. But I'm one text away if it gets ugly.
I know.
By six, I'd cleared enough of my desk to feel almost functional. The office had emptied out—Diana gone to a client dinner, Rachel heading home. The building settled into that after-hours quiet.
The safe sat in the corner. Untouched.
Tomorrow, I repeated. One more night of not knowing felt safer than facing whatever was on that drive.
I locked up and headed downstairs. Brian was waiting by the car, exactly where he'd said he'd be.
The drive home was quiet. Professional. Safe.
The building was settling into evening routines when we pulled up. Brian opened my door. "I'll be in the lobby if you need anything, Ms. Grant."
"Thank you."
The two guards Rowan had posted were at their stations around the house—silent, professional. They nodded. I nodded back.
Unlocked my door. Stepped inside. Locked it behind me.
Everything was exactly as I'd left it this morning. Coat closet. Kitchen counter. The faint lingering smell of coffee.
That's when I noticed the mail.
I'd grabbed it from the building's mail slots on my way up—autopilot, not really paying attention. Now I set my bag down and sorted through the stack.
Bills. A furniture catalog. Junk.
And one manila envelope with no return address.
I stopped.
The envelope was cream-colored. Standard size. Slightly heavy. The address label was printed—generic computer font, anonymous.
No postmark.
Hand-delivered.
My pulse kicked up. I went to the kitchen, pulled on the cleaning gloves I kept under the sink, and carefully picked up the envelope again.
Used scissors to slit it open.
Inside: a single sheet of expensive stationery. Cream-colored, heavy stock. Handwritten in unfamiliar script—looping, elegant, deliberately careful.
[Recovered from your little episode, have you? Good. But the game has just begun, dear daughter. Check your bedroom closet—I left you a reminder of what happens to disobedient girls.]
The words blurred.
My hands started shaking.
Bedroom closet.
I was moving before conscious thought caught up—through the living room, down the hall, into my bedroom. Everything looked normal. Bed made. Curtains drawn.
The closet door was closed. Exactly as I'd left it this morning.
I stopped three feet away.
My heartbeat was too loud. My breath came shallow.
Every instinct screamed don't open it don't open it don't—
I opened it.
Everything looked normal at first glance. Suits hanging neatly. Shoes lined up. The faint scent of cedar sachets.
I pulled open the bottom drawer—the deep one I used for seasonal storage.
That's when I saw it.
A small bundle of fabric, folded precisely. Cream-colored with faded pink flowers. The kind of pattern you'd see on a child's dress.
My child's dress.
My hands moved before my brain caught up. I lifted the fabric out, and the moment my fingers touched it, I knew.
Eight years old. The kitchen. Marcus's hand connecting with my face so hard I tasted copper. The dress catching on the corner of the counter as I fell—
The stain was still there. Dark brown. Unmistakable.
A photograph slipped out from between the folds.
I caught it. Turned it over.
A little girl curled in the corner of an ornate study. Knees pulled to chest. Face turned away from the camera, but the bruise on her cheek visible even in profile.
Grant House. The old office. Me.
I flipped the photo. Red ink, sharp handwriting:
You never escaped. You never will.
My legs went liquid.
I sat down hard on the bedroom floor, still holding the dress. Still holding the proof that Marcus—or someone working for him—had been in my home. In my bedroom. In the one space that was supposed to be mine.
My breath came too fast. The edges of my vision blurred.
No. Not now. You don't get to fall apart now.
I forced myself to breathe. Count to four. Hold. Count to four. Release.
Again.
Again.
When my hands stopped shaking enough to function, I grabbed two evidence bags from my desk drawer—the ones I kept for document preservation. Sealed the dress in one. The photo in the other. Labeled them with today's date and my initials.
Evidence. Not trauma. Evidence.
I stood. Walked out of the bedroom on autopilot. Found the two guards stationed outside my door.
"Inside. Now."
---
The team leader—David—took one look at my face and immediately called for backup. I showed him the note from the envelope. Not the dress. Not the photo. Those were too personal. Too raw.
"Someone entered this apartment," I said. Voice steady. Professional. "Check the building surveillance."
David's jaw tightened. "We cleared all deliveries today, ma'am. Nothing suspicious—"
"Check. The. Surveillance."
Twenty minutes later, we had an answer.
2:47 PM. A woman in a maintenance uniform, mid-forties, carrying a toolbox. She'd shown a work order to the building's front desk—air conditioning inspection. The desk clerk had verified it against their system.
Except the work order was fake.
She'd been in my apartment for fifteen minutes.
"Where was your team?" My voice came out colder than I'd intended.
David's expression tightened with professional shame. "We monitor external threats, Ms. Grant. We didn't think to verify internal building staff. That was an oversight."
"An oversight." I repeated the word. Tasted its inadequacy.