TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SIX
Morning came too quickly, gray light filtering through the loft windows.

I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of quiet voices below. My mother was already up, apparently, along with everyone else. I overslept.

"Damn it," I muttered, climbing down the ladder faster than was probably safe.

The main room looked different in daylight—smaller, more exposed. Hank was at the table with Maddie and Jim, studying what looked like a map. My mother sat by the fireplace with a mug of coffee, watching them work.

"Morning, sunshine," Maddie said without looking up. "We've been planning."

"Without me?"

"You needed sleep." Hank's voice was matter-of-fact. "We let you have it."

I poured myself coffee, trying not to feel irritated that they'd started without me. They were right—I had needed the rest. But I didn't like being left out.

"What's the plan?" I asked, joining them at the table.

Jim pointed to several locations marked on the map. "These are Vincent's known properties in town. The marina warehouse, obviously. A house on the north end that he uses as his base. And this building downtown that's supposedly a legitimate import-export business."

"Supposedly?"

"Money laundering operation. Has been for years."

I studied the map, recognizing the streets and landmarks. Windemere Bay looked smaller on paper than it felt in real life. More manageable. Less dangerous.

Which was probably an illusion.

"Where do we start?" I asked.

"The import-export business," Hank said. "It's the most public of his operations. Lots of foot traffic, security cameras, witnesses. If we're going to document what Vincent's doing, that's where we'll find the cleanest evidence."

"How do we get inside?"

"We don't. We watch from outside, document who comes and goes, look for patterns."

"That could take weeks."

"We don't have weeks." Maddie tapped her laptop. "I've been monitoring social media and local police scanners. Vincent's people are already spreading a narrative about yesterday's events. According to them, we're armed fugitives who attacked innocent businessmen."

"Of course they are."

"Which means we're on a clock. The longer Vincent controls the narrative, the harder it will be to get anyone to believe the truth."

My mother set down her coffee mug. "There's something I haven't told you yet."

We all turned to look at her.

"About Sarah's third hiding place. The one inside Vincent's operation."

"What about it?" I asked.

"She told me it would be hidden in plain sight. Somewhere Vincent's people would walk past every day without noticing."

"That's not very specific."

"She said I'd know it when I saw it. That it would make sense once I understood how Vincent's mind worked."

Hank leaned back in his chair, thinking. "Vincent's careful. Paranoid, even. He doesn't trust anyone completely. Which means..."

"Which means he'd keep important things close," I finished. "Where he can personally monitor them."

"His house," Maddie said. "It has to be at his house."

The idea of breaking into Vincent Torrino's home made my stomach clench with fear. But it also made a strange kind of sense.

"That's suicide," Jim said flatly. "His house will be crawling with security."

"Not during the Founder's Day Festival," my mother said quietly. "Most of his people will be in town, watching the crowds, looking for us."

"That's three days away," I said.

"Three days to plan. Three days to prepare." Hank was already studying the map with new focus. "Three days to figure out how to get in and out without getting killed."

We spent the next hour going over details. Vincent's house was on the north end of town, overlooking the ocean from a private cliff. Gated driveway, security cameras, at least two guards on duty at all times according to Maddie's research.

"Getting in is the easy part," Hank said. "Getting out alive is harder."

"How is getting in easy?"

"Because I know how Vincent thinks. How he sets up his security. Where the blind spots are."

"How do you know that?"

He didn't answer, but I understood. Because he'd probably helped set up security for similar houses when he was still Antonio Torrino.

"We'll need a distraction," Maddie said. "Something to draw most of his people away from the house."

"The festival," I said. "If Vincent thinks we're going to make a move during the festival, he'll concentrate his forces downtown."

"How do we make him think that?"

"We let him see us. Or at least, let him think he sees us."

The plan was taking shape now, dangerous but possibly workable. During the festival, while Vincent's attention was focused downtown, a small team would hit his house. Get in, find Sarah's evidence, get out.

Simple. Except for all the ways it could go catastrophically wrong.

"I'll go," I said. "It has to be me. I'm the only one who might recognize whatever Sarah hid."

"I'm going with you," Hank said immediately.

"No. You're the distraction. Vincent needs to think you're downtown."

"Elise—"

"It makes sense and you know it. He's looking for Antonio Torrino. Let him find you. Or at least think he's found you."

The look on his face told me he hated this plan. But he couldn't argue with the logic.

"I'll go with Elise," my mother said. "I knew Sarah better than anyone. If her hiding place is as clever as she promised, I'm the best chance of finding it."

"You're not strong enough," I protested.

"I'm stronger than I look. And I've been waiting thirty years for this chance."

Jim cleared his throat. "I'll coordinate from here. Monitor police scanners, maintain communication with Maddie downtown."

"What about me?" Maddie asked.

"You're the backup plan. If things go wrong, if we can't get the evidence out, you've got all our research. You publish everything, consequences be damned."

She nodded grimly. "Scorched earth."

"Scorched earth," I agreed.

The weight of what we were planning settled over the cabin like a shroud. This wasn't just dangerous—it was probably the stupidest thing any of us had ever attempted.

But what choice did we have? Keep hiding while girls continued to disappear? Let Vincent win by default?

"We should rest," Hank said finally. "Three days to prepare means three days of planning and reconnaissance. We'll need to be sharp."

But as everyone dispersed to their assigned tasks, Hank caught my arm. "Can we talk? Outside?"