Chapter 41: TRAPPED

The sky was bruised with dusk when Anise returned home, her coat damp from the misty drizzle that followed her from Elijah Dowen’s crumbling front steps. She had walked away from her father with fire in her chest and something heavier than anger lodged deep in her throat. She should’ve felt empowered—she had answers now. A direction. A purpose.

But all she could feel was the echo of Elijah Dowen’s name on her father’s lips.

The man had been more than a name in a byline. He had been a lifeline. A quiet force working behind the scenes to help her mother peel back the layers of a system rotten to its core. And now, he was dead.

Murdered.

That word had wrapped itself around her ribcage and refused to let go.

She hadn’t expected Dowen’s mother to open the door, much less invite her in. The woman was old and thin, her skin the color of parchment and eyes dimmed by time and grief. A nurse hovered quietly nearby, reading the atmosphere like a storm was brewing in the house's very walls.

They had talked for nearly an hour.

Anise learned that Elijah had been tailing Wesley Grant’s offshore dealings, and he had helped Camilla trace financial records linking Grant’s “youth foundations” to a complex laundering scheme—money hidden behind charitable smiles and handshakes. But it wasn’t just money. It was people. Children.

Anise hadn’t even made it to her bedroom before she ripped it open again: the folder that was handed to her by the nurse. Her kitchen table became a war zone of documents, grainy photographs, bank statements, and names. So many names. Judges. Police officers. Politicians.

And Wesley Grant. Always Grant. His name was inked in places it should never have been—private foundations, social programs, even child rehabilitation centers. Money moved. Children disappeared. Grant thrived.

Anise sat in silence, the heat from her tea long gone, her fingers trembling as they hovered over a document that made her breath catch in her throat. A transfer. A payment from one of Grant’s shell companies to a man she knew—a man she trusted.

Jake.

She blinked.

No. It wasn’t him directly. The name on the account was a private investigator Jake had once mentioned using in his early detective years—Dawson Rive. But the trail was there. And now, her mind spun with fresh doubt. Had he brushed this too and looked away?

Had he protected Grant?

Her phone buzzed.

Jake: Still want to meet tomorrow? Let me know. Been worried about you.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, a war between love and suspicion raging inside her chest.

She didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, she picked up the phone and called Kevin.

“I need you to see something,” she said. “Tonight.”

Kelvin arrived in under twenty minutes, still in his work clothes, smelling faintly of sweat and gunpowder. The moment he walked in and saw the papers sprawled across her table, he whistled low.

“Damn, Anise.”

“This is what my mother died for,” she said, not looking up. “This is what Elijah was killed for.”

They sat together, combing through the evidence. Files she hadn’t seen before—coded emails, hotel reservations, a photograph of Grant entering a private jet with someone Anise vaguely recognized from the news.

And then, Kevin found the one file that made her breath hitch.

“Look at this,” he said, turning the laptop toward her. “It’s a recording. Dated two months before your mom was killed.”

He pressed play.

Camilla’s voice filled the room. Tired. Fierce.

“I have enough to bury him. But I need time. If anything happens to me, Elijah has everything. And if they find him first… then it’s over.”

Anise leaned forward, her throat tight. The video ended with a flicker of a man’s voice, barely audible.

“Grant?” Kevin asked.

“No.” Her brows furrowed. “That wasn’t him.”

Kevin looked at her. “Then who?”

“You wouldn’t know him,” she said.

He looked up at her. "Where did you get this?"

"Elijah Dowen’s mother," she said, voice tightening. "He was helping my mom. He was murdered for it."

Kevin’s gaze darkened. "Shit."

Anise nodded slowly. "I think she saw it coming. She didn’t say it outright, but… she knew helping my mom would put a target on his back. They were working with someone inside. My mom called him ‘The Collector.’ She never gave a name, but there are references in these emails."

Kevin rubbed his chin, his mind already grinding through the gears of their next move.

"And Jake?" he asked suddenly, like the question had been waiting beneath his tongue the whole time.

Anise stiffened. There it was.

She looked away. "He’s not in this. Not yet. Or maybe he was. I don’t know."

"You gave him the flash drive first, right?"

"Yeah." Her voice faltered.

"And he never followed up?"

"No." The word was sharper now. "And when I brought it up… he didn’t even know what was on it. Or so he says."

Kevin raised an eyebrow. "You believe him?"

"I want to," she said. "But that’s the problem. Wanting to believe someone doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth."

He nodded solemnly. "So… what do we do?"

Anise turned back to the folder. "We blow it open. Everything."

"That’s dangerous."

"That’s the point."

Kevin’s eyes narrowed in something close to pride—and fear. "You sure you’re ready for that?"

"I was born for this," Anise said quietly. "My mom died for it. Dowen too. And maybe Elgin isn’t the perfect father, but even he’s willing to help now. This ends with us."

Kevin exhaled and looked at the folder again like it had teeth.

"So what’s our first move?"

Anise reached into the back pocket of the folder and pulled out a smaller slip of paper, nearly missed during her first glance. It was folded into fourths, and the writing was scrawled in Elijah’s frantic, rushed hand.

A name. A meeting point.

"Grant has a warehouse downtown. Off 7th. He uses it as a front for his fake shipping routes and smuggling. According to this, something big’s going down in two days."

Kevin’s eyes flicked to hers.

"You want to go."

"I’m done hiding."

AT THE WAREHOUSE

They moved like whispers, hugging the walls, avoiding glass underfoot. The chain-link fence surrounding the property had a gap near the back—a weakness Kevin had found earlier in the day. Slipping through, they ducked low, crossed the yard, and reached the warehouse's side door. Kevin worked a piece of wire into the lock. A click. A breath. The door creaked open.

Inside, the air was stale—metal and oil and the scent of long-buried secrets. They weaved through rows of crates stacked high, some marked with fake labels, others with no labels at all. A laptop sat open on a desk in the far corner, dimly glowing. Kelvin motioned toward it. Anise nodded.

A sudden clang behind them. A shout. Footsteps. Then flashlights—blinding, sharp.

“Run!” Kevin barked, grabbing her arm.

They bolted, darting between crates, but it was no use. Gunshots cracked through the silence. Someone shouted, “Don’t kill her!” The beams of light caught up to them. Hands grabbed her. A hard shove sent her to the floor.

“Anise!” Kevin’s voice was fading. “I’ll come back for you!”

She reached for him, but the barrel of a rifle stopped her hand. A heavy blow came from behind. Darkness rushed forward.

She didn’t know how long it had been. Her hands were tied. Her head was spinning. Her face was covered by something suffocating and thick. She was being moved. Carried. Voices murmured above her in clipped, urgent tones.

Then, a cold floor. A metallic echo.

“Where am I?” she croaked.

No one answered. She writhed, kicked. Her face was covered, her breath coming hot and quick against the fabric.

Then silence.

Then hands. A rush of air.

As the bag was ripped from her head, she blinked in the harsh light of the room. The two men stood before her, their bold tattoos seeming to gleam in the dim light. One of them wore a black leather jacket, adorned with silver studs, and a menacing scowl on his face. The other had a shaved head, with a scar above his left eyebrow, and a cold, calculating gaze.

She struggled against her restraints, but they were too tight. Panic set in as she realized the gravity of her situation. "Where am I?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady. "What do you want?"

The men exchanged a glance, and the one with the leather jacket sneered. "You're in a place where no one will find you," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "And as for what we want... well, that's need-to-know information."

The other man stepped forward, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. "You're a valuable commodity," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "And you'll be staying with us for a while."

She felt a chill run down her spine as the men began to circle her, their movements deliberate and menacing. She knew she had to think fast, to find a way out of this situation before it was too late. But for now, she was trapped, at the mercy of these two strangers with unknown intentions.