Maxwell Rourke stared at his own foot as though it belonged to someone else.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
The only sound in the bathroom was water pouring from the cold tap.
Martha reached for it and shut it off.
Silence returned.
Maxwell’s right foot lay against the porcelain side of the tub, perfectly still again.
But Martha knew what she had seen.
And judging by the expression on Maxwell’s face, so did he.
“That moved,” she whispered.
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
Martha looked at him.
“Mr.
Rourke—”
“You imagined it.”
“I worked rehabilitation for six years.”
“I know.”
The words stopped her.
Martha straightened slowly.
“You know?”
Maxwell’s expression closed.
He reached for a towel hanging beside the tub.
“Get out.”
She did not move.
“You knew where I worked?”
“I know who enters my house.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No,” he said.
“It isn’t.”
Martha felt something cold settle beneath her ribs.
She had assumed the Rourke household had hired her through the agency because they needed another cleaner.
Now she wondered whether there had been anything accidental about her coming here.
She glanced toward his right leg.
“Have you had movement before?”
His jaw tightened.
“Leave.”
“Have you?”
“Martha.”
It was the first time he had used her name.
And somehow that frightened her more than being called girl, maid, or Kovak.
She stepped toward the door.
Then stopped.
“You could have a reflex response.”
“I said leave.”
“Or incomplete spinal damage.”
His hand closed around the edge of the tub.
“Enough.”
“Or someone told you your condition was worse than it really is.”
That did it.
Maxwell turned his head.
For the first time, she saw the man behind the reputation.
Not the shipping magnate.
Not the alleged racketeer.
Not the untouchable king of Providence’s waterfront.
A frightened man.
It lasted barely a second.
Then the mask returned.
“You like this job?” he asked.
“I need it.”
“Then forget what you saw.”
“And if I don’t?”
Maxwell studied her.
“The intelligent answer is that you will.”
Martha swallowed.
She left.
But she did not forget.
—
By dinner, the house had changed.
Nothing visible.
Rourke House was still an enormous gray stone mansion overlooking the Providence River.
Staff still moved silently through polished corridors.
Fires still burned in fireplaces no one seemed to sit beside.
But Martha noticed things she had not noticed before.
Men watching staircases.
Doors being locked.
Whispered conversations ending when she entered rooms.
And Dr.
Adrian Vale arrived at seven twenty-three.
Martha recognized him immediately.
She had seen his photograph in newspapers after Maxwell’s shooting.
Vale was a neurologist from Boston.
Expensive.
Famous.
The kind of physician whose patients had private airplanes and hospital wings named after grandparents.
He entered carrying a black leather medical case.
“Mr.
Rourke upstairs?” he asked.
The housekeeper nodded.
Vale went directly to the third floor.
Martha stood beside the dining room doors holding a tray.
For fourteen months, Vale had supervised Maxwell’s treatment.
For fourteen months, Maxwell had remained paralyzed.
And Maxwell had been afraid when his foot moved.
Martha waited three minutes.
Then she followed.
She knew she was being foolish.
Perhaps dangerously foolish.
But curiosity had ruined better people than Martha Kovak.
She climbed the servants’ staircase and stopped near Maxwell’s bedroom.
Voices came through the partially closed door.
Vale spoke first.
“You said she saw it?”
“Yes.”
Maxwell.
Martha froze.
“How much?”
“The foot.”
“That could be reflexive.”
“That’s what she said.”
Vale gave a small laugh.
“She was a nurse?”
“Rehabilitation assistant.”
“That wasn’t in the agency report.”
“It was in mine.”
Silence.
Martha’s heart began beating harder.
Vale lowered his voice.
“You should dismiss her.”
“No.”
“Maxwell—”
“She saw something.
If she disappears immediately, people ask why.”
“She is household staff.
No one asks why household staff leaves.”
“I do.”
Vale sighed.
“You’re becoming suspicious again.”
“Again?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You meant exactly what you said.”
Another silence.
Then Vale spoke more carefully.
“Your injury was catastrophic.
Muscle spasms can occur without meaningful neurological recovery.”
“What about sensation?”
Martha leaned closer.
Inside the room, something shifted.
“What sensation?”
Vale asked.
“Cold.”
Martha held her breath.
“When?”
“Sometimes.”
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Maxwell’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“Because whenever I tell you something improves, you increase my medication.”
Martha’s stomach tightened.
Vale answered after a pause.
“That medication prevents neuropathic pain.”
“I’m not in pain.”
“You were.”
“I’m not now.”
“You could be if—”
“I stopped taking it four days ago.”
Silence.
A different kind of silence.
Martha felt it through the door.
Then Vale said, very softly, “You what?”
“I stopped.”
“You cannot discontinue pregabalin abruptly.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Maxwell—”
“Because yesterday morning I moved my toes.”
Martha nearly stepped backward.
Vale said nothing.
“And this afternoon,” Maxwell continued, “my housekeeper turned cold water on my leg and my foot moved.”
“She isn’t your housekeeper.”
“No.”
There was a strange note in his voice.
“She isn’t.”
Vale’s tone changed.
“We need imaging.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“No.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“To whom?”
Martha did not hear Vale answer.
Then a chair moved.
She hurried toward the staircase.
The bedroom door opened behind her.
“Martha.”
She stopped.
Maxwell sat in his wheelchair.
Vale stood behind him.
The doctor’s face wore an easy professional smile.
Maxwell’s did not.
“Were you listening?” he asked.
Martha considered lying.
“Yes.”
Vale’s smile disappeared.
Maxwell watched her for several seconds.
Then he looked at Vale.
“Go downstairs.”
“Maxwell—”
“Now.”
Vale remained motionless.
Something passed between the two men.
Challenge.
Fear.
Recognition.
Then Vale picked up his medical bag and left.
When his footsteps faded, Maxwell rolled his wheelchair closer.
“You have terrible instincts.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“That should frighten you.”
“It does.”
“Not enough.”
He turned the chair.
“Come with me.”
Martha hesitated.
“Where?”
“Unless you prefer Vale.”
She followed.
—
Maxwell took her to his office.
Martha had never entered it.
The room was enormous, dark-paneled, and surprisingly spare.
One desk.
Two chairs.
Shelves of shipping ledgers.
A painting of Providence Harbor in winter.
Maxwell locked the door.
Then rolled behind his desk.
“Tell me what you know about spinal injuries.”
“I know enough to know I’m not a neurologist.”
“Good answer.”
“I also know your foot moved.”
“Better answer.”
He studied her.
“My spinal cord was damaged at T4.”
“Complete?”
“That’s what Vale says.”
“ASIA A?”
“Yes.”
Martha frowned.
A clinically complete spinal injury meant no sensory or motor function below the injury, including sacral segments.
Possible reflexes could remain.
But cold sensation?
Voluntary toe movement?
That was different.
“Who examined you originally?”
“Vale.”
“No one else?”
“Several specialists.”
“Chosen by?”
“Vale.”
Martha exhaled slowly.
“That is a problem.”
Maxwell almost smiled.
“Careful.”
“You asked.”
“I did.”
Martha folded her arms.
“What happened the night you were injured?”
The smile vanished.
“I was shot.”
“I know that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because newspaper articles say the bullet entered below your shoulder and passed near your spine.”
“It did.”
“Near isn’t through.”
He stared at her.
“You’ve been researching me.”
“I can read.”
“That is increasingly inconvenient.”
She ignored him.
“Were you unconscious?”
“Two days.”
“When you woke up?”
“I couldn’t move my legs.”
“Could you feel them?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
He hesitated.
And Martha saw it.
“What?”
“There was burning.”
“Where?”
“Left thigh.”
“When?”
“The first week.”
“And Vale?”
“Said phantom neurological activity.”
Martha shook her head.
“Phantom symptoms happen.
But with complete injuries, preserved sensation matters.”
“You’re saying he lied?”
“I’m saying I wouldn’t accept one doctor’s interpretation when that doctor controls every specialist around you.”
Maxwell leaned back.
For a long moment, only the fire moved.
Then he said, “Vale was at the restaurant.”
Martha frowned.
“What restaurant?”
“The night I was shot.”
She felt the hairs rise along her arms.
“He treated you there?”
“No.”
“He was eating there?”
“No.”
Maxwell’s eyes remained on hers.
“He arrived eighteen minutes after I was shot.”
“That’s fast.”
“I never called him.”
The room suddenly seemed colder.
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
Martha whispered, “Have you asked?”
“Two men knew.”
“What happened to them?”
“One disappeared.”
“And the other?”
“Died.”
She stared at him.
“Convenient.”
Maxwell’s mouth curved without humor.
“You understand my profession quickly.”
“I understand people.”
“No.
People are easy.”
His fingers tapped the desk.
“Power is complicated.”
Martha looked toward his wheelchair.
Suddenly she understood.
For fourteen months, Maxwell Rourke had been unable to walk.
Someone else had been running pieces of his empire.
“Who took over your businesses?”
“My younger brother.”
There it was.
“Daniel?”
“You’ve done your homework.”
Everyone in Rhode Island knew Daniel Rourke.
Forty-three.
Charming.
Educated.
The respectable Rourke brother.
Unlike Maxwell, Daniel appeared at charity dinners.
He donated money to hospitals.
He sat on university boards.
Newspapers photographed him smiling beside mayors.
Since Maxwell’s injury, Daniel had become acting chairman of Rourke Maritime.
Martha felt sick.
“Does Daniel know about your foot?”
“No.”
“Vale?”
“Now he does.”
“Then you made a mistake telling him.”
Maxwell’s eyes hardened.
“I wanted to see his reaction.”
“And?”
“Exactly what you saw.”
Fear.
Martha looked toward the locked door.
“You think they did this to you.”
“I think someone wanted me alive.”
“Why?”
“Because dead men leave inheritances.
Disabled men leave proxies.”
The sentence hung in the air.
Martha understood immediately.
Daniel could run the empire without inheriting it.
As long as Maxwell remained alive—and helpless.
“What do you want from me?”
Maxwell reached into a drawer.
He removed a small amber bottle.
Prescription medication.
He placed it on the desk.
“Tell me what this is.”
Martha picked it up.
No pharmacy label.
Only Maxwell’s name and dosage instructions written on a white sticker.
Two capsules nightly.
“Where did it come from?”
“Vale.”
“You don’t know?”
“He calls it a nerve stabilizer.”
Martha opened the bottle.
Small blue capsules.
They looked generic.
Could have been dozens of things.
“I can’t identify medication by appearance safely.”
“Can you find out?”
“Probably.”
“How?”
“I know someone.”
Maxwell’s eyebrow lifted.
“A pharmacist?”
“Former coworker.”
“Trustworthy?”
Martha thought of Elena Cruz, who had worked nights with her at St.
Catherine’s Rehabilitation Center.
Elena had been the only coworker who visited after Martha lost her license.
“Yes.”
Maxwell wheeled closer.
“Then take one capsule.”
Martha stared at him.
“You understand that if you’re right, someone may already be watching me.”
“Yes.”
“You say that like it doesn’t bother you.”
“It bothers me very much.”
“Good.”
She slipped one capsule into her pocket.
Maxwell watched her.
“If anything happens—”
A knock came at the door.
Three precise knocks.
Maxwell’s face changed.
“Who?”
“Daniel.”
Martha’s blood went cold.
Maxwell looked toward the desk.
The medication bottle sat between them.
He took it.
Dropped it into the drawer.
“Bathroom.”
Martha looked around.
“What?”
“Through there.”
“I’m not hiding in your bathroom.”
Daniel knocked again.
Maxwell stared at her.
“Would you rather explain why the maid is alone in my locked office at ten at night?”
Martha went.
—
She left the bathroom door open half an inch.
Daniel Rourke entered.
His voice was warmer than Maxwell’s.
“Interesting evening.”
“So I’m told.”
“Vale says you dismissed him.”
“I told him to leave.”
“He seemed concerned.”
“He is paid to seem concerned.”
Daniel laughed softly.
Martha peered through the crack.
The brothers looked nothing alike.
Maxwell was broad, dark-haired, severe.
Daniel was leaner, fair-haired, elegant.
A politician’s face.
He poured himself whiskey.
“You didn’t tell me you were having spasms.”
Maxwell said nothing.
Martha’s pulse quickened.
How did Daniel know?
Vale.
Daniel turned.
“Max?”
“Minor reflex.”
“Vale didn’t think it was minor.”
“No?”
“He wants you hospitalized tonight.”
“I declined.”
“I heard.”
Daniel sipped his whiskey.
Then he smiled.
“You always hated hospitals.”
“I hate rooms where other people decide when I wake up.”
The smile remained.
But Daniel’s eyes changed.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Probably.”
“I can arrange private imaging here tomorrow.”
“Vale suggested that.”
“And?”
“I’m considering it.”
Daniel walked behind Maxwell’s wheelchair.
He placed both hands on his brother’s shoulders.
From where Martha stood, the gesture looked affectionate.
But Maxwell’s face became stone.
“You’ve been through enough,” Daniel said quietly.
“You should stop fighting everything.”
Maxwell looked straight ahead.
“What would I do instead?”
“Live.”
“In this chair?”
Daniel leaned closer.
“You are alive, Max.”
Then he lowered his voice.
“And considering how many people wanted you dead, maybe you should be grateful for that.”
Silence.
Daniel straightened.
Finished his whiskey.
At the door, he stopped.
“Oh.”
Maxwell looked at him.
“The new maid.”
Martha froze.
“What about her?”
“Be careful.”
“With Martha?”
Daniel smiled.
“She has an interesting employment history.”
The door closed.
Martha waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Maxwell locked the door again.
She stepped out.
“He knows about me.”
“He knows about everyone.”
“But why mention my employment history?”
Maxwell looked at her.
“Because he wants you to know he knows.”
“He didn’t know I was here.”
“Daniel rarely says something for only one audience.”
Martha frowned.
Maxwell looked toward the bathroom door.
“He saw your reflection.”
Her stomach dropped.
“In the mirror.”
She turned.
The bathroom mirror faced the crack perfectly.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he say anything?”
“That,” Maxwell said, “is what worries me.”
—
Martha did not sleep that night.
At six fifteen the next morning, she left the estate carrying laundry bags.
Hidden inside one bag was Maxwell’s capsule.
Elena Cruz worked at a pharmacy three neighborhoods away.
She took one look at Martha and said, “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Martha pulled the capsule from her pocket.
“I need a favor.”
Elena examined it.
“No label?”
“No.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I can’t say.”
Elena frowned.
“You’re not taking mystery pills now, are you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She disappeared into the back room.
Twenty minutes later, she returned looking confused.
“This isn’t pregabalin.”
Martha’s heart accelerated.
“What is it?”
“I can’t confirm without proper lab testing, but the imprint belongs to a compounded medication.”
“What medication?”
Elena lowered her voice.
“Baclofen.”
Martha knew it.
Muscle relaxant.
Used for spasticity.
“In this dose?”
Elena shook her head.
“That’s not the strange part.”
“What is?”
“This capsule has something else mixed into it.”
“What?”
“Possibly clonazepam.”
Martha stared.
A benzodiazepine.
Sedation.
Muscle weakness.
Impaired coordination.
Combined with baclofen, it could make movement extraordinarily difficult.
Especially for someone recovering from neurological trauma.
“Would long-term use make someone appear more disabled than they are?”
Elena stared at her.
“Martha, who is taking this?”
“Would it?”
“It could suppress muscle activity, increase weakness, slow reactions.
But if someone had a spinal injury—”
“Could it hide recovery?”
Elena hesitated.
“Potentially.”
Martha closed her eyes.
Fourteen months.
Two capsules every night.
Maxwell had stopped four days ago.
Yesterday, he moved his toes.
Then his foot.
“Martha.”
She opened her eyes.
Elena looked worried.
“This could be dangerous.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean dangerously illegal.”
“I know.”
“Who gave you this?”
The pharmacy door opened.
A man entered.
Dark suit.
Gray tie.
Martha had seen him before.
At Rourke House.
One of Daniel’s drivers.
He looked at Martha.
Then Elena.
Then the capsule.
Martha did not think.
She grabbed Elena’s wrist.
“Back door.”
They ran.
—
They exited into an alley.
The man came after them.
Martha heard his shoes striking pavement.
Elena shouted, “What did you get me into?”
“I don’t know yet!”
They turned onto Cranston Street.
Traffic roared past.
Martha pulled out her phone.
No service.
Impossible.
She looked again.
Signal bars returned.
Someone bumped her shoulder.
The phone fell.
A motorcycle tire crushed it seconds later.
Elena screamed.
Martha kept running.
They reached a bakery.
People.
Witnesses.
The man in the gray tie stopped across the street.
He stared at Martha.
Then smiled.
And walked away.
Martha’s stomach twisted.
“He wasn’t trying to catch us,” she whispered.
Elena leaned against the bakery window, breathing heavily.
“What?”
“He wanted me scared.”
“It worked.”
Martha watched the man disappear.
“No.”
She suddenly understood.
“He wanted me to run somewhere.”
“To where?”
Martha turned.
“Back to Maxwell.”
—
When she returned to Rourke House, the gates were open.
Too open.
No guards.
No drivers.
No gardeners.
The front door stood slightly ajar.
Martha entered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
She moved through the foyer.
A chair had been overturned.
There was blood on the marble.
Her breath caught.
She ran upstairs.
“Mr.
Rourke!”
The third floor was empty.
Maxwell’s bedroom door stood open.
His wheelchair was gone.
Then she heard something.
A dull sound.
From the bathroom.
Martha ran inside.
The room was cold.
Maxwell lay beside the tub.
His wheelchair was overturned.
Blood ran from his temple.
“Maxwell!”
His eyes opened.
Barely.
“They came,” he whispered.
“Who?”
He grabbed her wrist.
Strongly.
Too strongly.
“Lock the door.”
Martha did.
She knelt beside him.
“Can you move?”
“No.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“Yes.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Daniel sent them away.”
“We need an ambulance.”
“No.”
“Maxwell—”
“No police.
No ambulance.”
“You may have a concussion.”
“Listen to me.”
His grip tightened.
“Desk.”
“What?”
“Bottom drawer.”
Martha ran into the office.
The drawer was locked.
“Key?”
“Underneath.”
She reached beneath the desk.
Tape.
A small key.
The drawer opened.
Inside was a pistol.
Cash.
Passports.
And a black notebook.
“Bring the notebook.”
She returned.
Maxwell opened it with shaking hands.
Pages of names.
Dates.
Container numbers.
Politicians.
Police officers.
Judges.
Payments.
“This is your ledger.”
“No.”
“Then whose?”
His eyes met hers.
“Daniel’s.”
Martha stared.
“How did you get it?”
“Someone gave it to me the night I was shot.”
“Who?”
Maxwell opened to the final page.
One name had been written there.
Dr.
Adrian Vale.
Beside it:
$250,000 — continuation.
Martha felt cold.
“What does continuation mean?”
“I think we know.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Maxwell snapped the notebook closed.
Martha stood.
The bathroom doorknob moved.
Someone tried it once.
Then again.
“Martha.”
She looked down.
Maxwell pointed toward the tub.
“Behind it.”
“What about you?”
“They need me alive.”
“You don’t know that anymore.”
His expression told her that was true.
The doorknob stopped moving.
Silence.
Then someone knocked.
“Martha?”
Daniel.
Her stomach clenched.
“Martha, I know you’re in there.”
Maxwell whispered, “Hide.”
She moved behind the tub.
The bathroom door shook violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Daniel’s voice came softly through the wood.
“My brother is confused.”
Martha said nothing.
“He has suffered severe trauma.
Medication changes have made him paranoid.”
Maxwell almost laughed.
Daniel continued.
“You are not in trouble.”
A pause.
“Open the door.”
Martha crouched beside the tub.
Her hand found something beneath it.
Metal.
She looked down.
A handgun.
Maxwell had hidden another weapon there.
She picked it up.
Her hands trembled.
Then Maxwell did something she never expected.
He sat up.
Not using his arms.
Not pulling himself.
He bent one knee.
Placed his right foot flat against the floor.
And pushed.
Martha stared.
Maxwell rose halfway.
His entire body shook.
His face went white with effort.
But he was standing.
Only for two seconds.
Maybe three.
Then his leg collapsed.
Martha caught him before his head struck the tub.
They stared at each other.
Neither spoke.
Daniel stopped knocking.
He must have heard the fall.
“Maxwell?”
No answer.
Then something clicked outside.
A key.
The lock began turning.
Maxwell grabbed Martha’s shoulder.
“There’s another door.”
“Where?”
He pointed toward the tiled wall.
Martha stared.
Nothing.
“Third tile beside the window.”
She pressed it.
A section of wall released.
A narrow passage appeared.
“What is this?”
“My grandfather built the house.”
Another click from the main door.
“Go.”
Martha pulled Maxwell toward the passage.
He was heavy.
She dragged him across the floor.
The main bathroom door opened just as the hidden panel closed behind them.
Darkness.
Martha heard Daniel enter the bathroom.
“Max?”
Silence.
Then Daniel laughed.
Not loudly.
Almost affectionately.
“I knew you’d find it eventually.”
Martha’s blood froze.
Maxwell went still beside her.
Daniel knew about the passage.
Footsteps approached the wall.
Martha raised the gun.
Maxwell touched her hand.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the passage has two exits.”
She stared at him.
“And he’ll take the other one.”
They moved.
The passage descended sharply behind the walls of Rourke House.
Martha supported Maxwell while he used his arms along a railing.
Halfway down, his right leg twitched.
Then his left.
He stopped.
“What?”
Martha whispered.
“My left foot.”
“What about it?”
“I felt the step.”
Before Martha could answer, light appeared below them.
Someone stood at the bottom of the passage.
A man.
Tall.
Holding a gun.
Martha aimed hers.
The man raised one hand.
“Easy.”
She recognized the voice.
Dr.
Adrian Vale.
Maxwell froze.
“You.”
Vale looked behind them nervously.
“We don’t have much time.”
Maxwell’s voice became lethal.
“You drugged me.”
“Yes.”
Martha stared.
Vale continued rapidly.
“But not for the reason you think.”
Maxwell moved toward him.
“You have ten seconds.”
Vale lowered the gun.
“Daniel didn’t pay me to keep you paralyzed.”
Maxwell stopped.
Martha felt the world tilt again.
Vale swallowed.
“He paid me to make everyone believe you were.”
Silence.
Maxwell’s expression changed.
“What?”
Vale stepped closer.
“The bullet never severed your spinal cord.”
Martha already suspected that.
But Vale’s next words changed everything.
“You could move your right leg three weeks after the shooting.”
Maxwell stared at him.
“No.”
“You did.”
“I would remember.”
Vale shook his head.
“No.
You wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I sedated you every time it happened.”
Maxwell lunged.
Martha caught his arm.
Vale backed against the wall.
“Listen to me!”
“Why?”
“Because Daniel wasn’t trying to steal your empire!”
Maxwell froze.
Vale looked terrified.
“He was trying to keep you alive.”
Martha stared at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does.”
Vale looked at Maxwell.
“Do you remember who shot you?”
“No.”
“You were told it was Victor Sanz.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Who was it?”
Vale looked toward the staircase behind them.
Footsteps echoed faintly above.
Daniel was coming.
Vale whispered:
“You.”
Maxwell went utterly still.
Martha thought she had misheard.
“What?”
Vale’s face was pale.
“You shot yourself.”
Maxwell stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“I was shot from behind.”
“That is what we told the police.”
“Why would I shoot myself?”
Vale opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
Because another voice answered from the darkness below.
“You didn’t.”
A woman stepped into the light.
She held a pistol.
Silver hair.
Elegant black dress.
Martha recognized her from the portrait hanging above the staircase.
Impossible.
Eleanor Rourke.
Maxwell and Daniel’s mother.
According to every newspaper in Rhode Island, Eleanor Rourke had died eleven years ago.
Maxwell stared at her as if he had seen a ghost.
“Mother?”
The woman smiled.
“Hello, darling.”
Footsteps stopped above them.
Daniel’s voice echoed through the passage.
“Don’t listen to her, Max.”
Eleanor raised her gun.
Vale raised his.
Martha stood between them with Maxwell barely able to remain upright.
And suddenly she understood something terrifying.
Daniel had not been hunting Maxwell.
Vale had not been poisoning him simply to steal his recovery.
And the woman officially buried eleven years earlier had just emerged from beneath Rourke House.
Maxwell looked from his mother to the brother approaching from above.
“What the hell is happening?”
Eleanor’s smile vanished.
“The night you were shot,” she said, “you discovered who actually owns the Rourke organization.”
Maxwell stared at her.
Then Martha heard Daniel behind them.
“Mother, don’t.”
Eleanor ignored him.
She looked directly at her eldest son.
“You thought you were running this family.”
Her finger tightened around the trigger.
“You never were.”
A shot exploded through the passage.
Martha screamed.
Vale collapsed.
Daniel shouted.
Maxwell fell against the wall.
And before Martha could tell whose gun had fired, she saw Maxwell’s left hand drop to his abdomen.
Blood spread between his fingers.
But that was not the thing that terrified her most.
Because behind Eleanor Rourke, another figure stepped from the underground corridor.
A man Martha recognized immediately.
A man whose funeral she had attended herself seven years earlier.
Her father.
And he looked directly at Martha.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said.
“Now you finally understand why they hired you.”
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Source: Stories of Destiny · Huyen Huyen
