Chapter 1 - THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR
My breath caught in my throat as I peered through the glass lens of the peephole.
Standing in the dimly lit, carpeted hallway of my Reseda apartment complex was not a police officer or a late-night intruder in a ski mask. It was a woman wearing an immaculate white cashmere trench coat, oversized dark sunglasses despite the pitch-black hour, and diamond earrings that caught the flickering fluorescent light of the hallway.
It was Victoria Sterling—or rather, Rachel Collins.
Her stunning, photogenic face, usually plastered across high-society galas and architectural magazines, was frozen in a mask of cold, predatory determination. Flanking her were two hulking men dressed in tailored black suits, their hands folded neatly over their waists, their posture clearly indicating military or private security training.
"Sarah," Victoria’s voice echoed through the cheap wooden door, smooth, calm, and terrifyingly composed. "I know you’re awake. I know Harrison’s little package arrived this afternoon."
I stepped back from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs so violently it made me dizzy. In my robe pocket, the small plastic USB drive felt like a burning ember against my thigh.
"Go away!" I yelled, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I’m calling the police!"
A soft, melodic laugh came through the wood. "Oh, Sarah. Please don't be cliché. Call them. Officer Martinez on the night shift in this precinct is on my husband’s payroll, and Detective Miller’s wife just had her private clinic bills paid in full by the Sterling Foundation. Who do you think they’ll believe? A bitter ex-wife living in a Reseda rental, or the heiress to Sterling Global Communications?"
Inside her bedroom, Chloe’s crying grew louder. "Mommy! Mommy, who is that?"
"Hush, baby! Stay in bed!" I called back over my shoulder, my mind spinning through options. The front door was locked with a deadbolt, but a single kick from one of those men would snap the wooden frame instantly. There were no fire escapes in the front, only a narrow metal ladder attached to the kitchen window leading down into the alley behind the dumpster.
"Look, Sarah," Victoria continued, her tone shifting into something almost patronizingly soft. "Harrison has been suffering from severe early-onset dementia and paranoid schizophrenia for the past eighteen months. He’s been in a private residential care facility in Malibu. Occasionally, he escapes his nurses and does absurd things—like mailing filthy trash to his old addresses."
"He looked starved, Victoria!" I blurted out, unable to stop myself. "He looked like he was being held in a cellar!"
Silence settled over the hallway. The patronizing warmth in Victoria’s voice vanished completely, replaced by an icy, razor-sharp edge.
"So you watched the video," she said quietly.
"Break the door," Victoria commanded her men, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.
"NOW!"
CRACK!
The heavy wooden door frame splintered violently inward as the larger of the two men threw his shoulder against the lock.
I didn't wait for the second hit. I sprinted down the hallway into Chloe’s bedroom, snatched my weeping daughter off her mattress, wrapped her in her heavy winter blanket, and bolted into the kitchen.
BOOM!
The front door burst open, crashing against the hallway wall with deafening force. Heavy leather shoes thundered onto the linoleum.
"Find the drive! Check the kid's room!" Victoria ordered from the entryway.
I shoved open the rusted latch on the kitchen window, feeling the bitter 3:00 a.m. wind slap my face. "Chloe, hold onto Mommy’s neck! Wrap your arms tightly and don't let go, no matter what!"
Chloe buried her face into the crook of my shoulder, her arms locked around my neck like steel bands. I swung my legs over the windowsill, feeling for the cold metal rungs of the fire escape ladder.
"She’s in the kitchen!" a man’s voice roared.
I scrambled down the rusted iron ladder into the pitch-black alley below just as a flashlight beam cut through the darkness from the window above. Footsteps pounded down the metal stairs behind us.
Pain shot through my bare feet as my soles hit the cold asphalt of the alleyway, but adrenaline wiped out the sensation entirely. I sprinted toward the street, my heart pounding in my ears. Parked half a block away under a broken streetlamp was my ten-year-old beat-up Honda Civic.
I threw Chloe into the backseat, shoved her down onto the floorboards, jumped into the driver's seat, and jammed the key into the ignition.
The engine sputtered once. Twice.
"Come on! Come on, please!" I sobbed, pounding my fist against the steering wheel.
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Through the rearview mirror, I saw one of the suited men burst out of the alley, raising a sleek black device toward my car.
The engine roared to life. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal, spinning the tires against the wet pavement, and tore away into the dark, empty streets of Los Angeles just as a heavy metallic thud echoed off my trunk.
