Chapter 7 - THE PACKAGE ON THE PORCH
The phone call hung in the air like ozone after a lightning strike.
I lowered the phone slowly, my eyes locked on the dark screen.
Who was that? Julian asked, his voice dropping instantly into tactical mode.
He stepped around the desk, his hand resting on the holster concealed beneath his vest.
A blocked number, I said.
Someone telling me to expect a delivery.
Before Julian could dial security, a heavy thud echoed from the front foyer downstairs.
A delivery truck idling in the gravel drive, followed by the crunch of tires accelerating away.
Stay here, Julian ordered, moving toward the door.
No, I said, standing up.
It's addressed to me. I'm going down.
We descended the grand staircase side by side.
The marble foyer was quiet, the morning sunlight cutting sharp geometric shapes across the checkerboard floor.
Sitting squarely in the center of the mahogany console table was a small, oblong cardboard box.
It was wrapped in brown butcher paper and sealed with thick, industrial-grade packing tape.
There was no return address.
Just my name handwritten in jagged, block letters:
NADIA.
Julian stepped forward first.
He pulled a small tactical knife from his pocket, sliced through the tape with a single, practiced motion, and flipped the flaps open with the tip of the blade.
I stepped up beside him and looked inside.
My breath caught in my throat.
Resting on a bed of shredded newspaper was a pair of silver-plated sewing shears.
And wrapped around the blades was a lock of platinum-blonde hair.
Clarissa's hair.
Attached to the handles with a red ribbon was a folded note.
I reached out with trembling fingers and unfolded the paper.
The message was written in the same jagged block letters:
*SHE TOOK YOURS. WE TOOK HERS. WHO DO YOU THINK IS NEXT?*
Julian picked up the shears with a gloved hand he always carried in his coat pocket.
He examined the metal under the foyer light.
Blood, he murmured quietly, pointing to a dark, dried stain near the hinge.
Not mine, I whispered, a cold dread washing over me.
Clarissa.
Where is she?
Julian pulled out his encrypted satellite phone.
He punched in a sequence of numbers with rapid efficiency.
Security desk, he barked when the line connected.
Trace the delivery vehicle that dropped a package at the main gate at 11:14 AM.
And pull the traffic cams on Route 9.
I want to know who was driving.
He snapped the phone shut and turned to me.
She didn't leave the city last night, Julian said, his jaw tight.
Someone intercepted her before she reached her father's downtown penthouse.
Who?
The man who helped her father bury the evidence twenty-four years ago, Julian said grimly.
Marcus Vance — my uncle.
The name dropped like lead into the conversation.
Marcus.
The man Julian had spent a decade stripping of corporate power.
The man who believed the Vance empire belonged to him alone.
He's using Clarissa as bait, I realized, the pieces clicking together in my mind.
He knows we destroyed her father.
Now he wants to use her as a weapon against us.
Julian stepped closer, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made the room feel small.
Then we play his game, Julian said.
May you like
He thinks he's hunting us.
He doesn't know we were waiting for him to step out of the shadows.
