Chapter 7
KATIE
Is this the job I was hired to do? Fucking asshole.
I’ll show him exactly what I was hired to do.
I ease my bedroom door shut behind me, careful not to wake the other maids as I step into the moonlit night.
Why did I ever think he was handsome? With his stupid man-bun and sharp, judging eyes that see too damn much.
I tug my cap low, keeping my face shadowed as I move across the lawn, away from the lamplit main paths.
Silence hangs over the grounds, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves and faint voices drifting from the guards’ posts.
All security focuses on the main house, the entrance, and the men's quarters—because nobody thinks the maids could be dangerous.
An advantage for me.
A quick scan of my surroundings, then I slip into the thick shadows of the woods. Trees that will soon be chopped down to clear space for Roan’s precious restaurant and whatever other grand ideas he has for making this estate self-sufficient.
The darkness deepens the farther I go, yet my eyes, long adjusted, guide me smoothly over roots and through tangled branches, heartbeat slow and steady.
I glance around again, making sure I’m alone, though I don’t really need to bother. The woods get little attention—nothing here is worth protecting. At least, that’s what they think.
One morning weeks ago, I’d wandered in here out of curiosity and found what looked like a sealed well.
Fascinated, I’d broken the rusted padlock and peered inside, expecting to find stagnant water.
But it wasn’t a well at all—it was an old, abandoned sewer line leading straight out of the compound.
A secret escape route no one remembered existed.
I was thrilled.
Now, I navigate to the entrance again, fingers finding the new padlock I installed—because I’m not stupid enough to leave it unsecured for someone else to come across. I fish out the key from my back pocket, unlock it with a quiet click, then glance around the area one last time.
Nothing but the wind stirring leaves and shadows.
With a gentle tug, the cover lifts, and I carefully lower myself onto the rungs leading down, dragging the cover back over my head as I descend. Darkness swallows me whole, and I take a deep breath—immediately regretting it as the smell of rot and damp stone fills my lungs.
God, this never gets easier.
When my feet finally touch solid ground, I exhale shakily and pull out my phone. The screen’s light is almost blinding, forcing me to squint as I activate the flashlight. Its thin beam cuts through the dark tunnel, catching wet walls stained with moss and decades of grime.
Step by careful step, I move deeper, the tunnel swallowing the sound of my breathing. A tight knot forms in my chest, making me fidget with the phone until I finally check my messages. Thumb hovering over the screen, I hope, I pray—
Nothing.
Fuck.
No word from my investigator in over a week. The silence is becoming unbearable, each day that passes without contact sending my anxiety spiraling higher. Did he find my sister or not? Did he even track down the man holding her like he claimed?
The last time we spoke, he said he had a lead on Long Island and promised to update me on his findings when he returned. Radio silence since then. Was he caught? Is he dead? Did he reveal who sent him?
I was given strict warnings not to search for Kayla, but I’m done being led by the nose with my sister dangled over my head. What sort of life could she have even lived all these years, knowing she was being held over me? It needs to stop.
The silence from my investigator is a major problem. Which means I need someone new—like yesterday.
Or maybe I should stop wasting time with intermediaries and just find Kayla myself. But that would mean abandoning this mission I’ve been forced to undertake in the Albanian estate and potentially exposing her to even more danger.
It’s a fucking mess.
The damp air grows heavier the farther I walk, the stench of rot intensifying until I’m breathing through my mouth. But I ignore it and keep moving, boots squelching against the wet ground, the quiet broken only by the steady drip of water.
Ahead, the tunnel stretches on, a twisting path lined with rusted pipes and roots clawing through cracked cement.
My light catches a rat scurrying along the wall, but I don’t slow down.
I keep my focus on the ground, stepping around deep puddles, trying not to think about what’s in the water I can’t avoid.
Minutes drag by like hours. My shoulders tense, every small sound threatening to spook me. But there’s nothing down here except me and the rats. No one else is crazy enough for this.
Finally, the rusty ladder comes into view, bolted against the slick wall, leading up to the round metal cover that opens onto freedom—at least for a little while.
I switch off my flashlight and slide my phone back into my pocket so I can grip the ladder’s cold metal with both hands.
Then I start climbing, my muscles straining with the effort.
It’s harder pulling myself up than climbing down was, gravity working against me now, but I force myself upward one rung at a time.
At the top, I brace my shoulder against the manhole cover and push until it shifts with a low, grating scrape that makes me freeze, listening intently for any sign that someone heard.
Nothing. Just the distant sound of water and traffic.
Keep going.
As soon as the cover is fully pushed aside, cool, fresh air rushes over me, and I gulp it in greedily as I climb out onto damp gravel near the shore. The East River stretches out ahead—dark and wide—with city lights shimmering on the restless water.
For a moment, I just stand there, letting the river and city lights spill out before me. A quick stolen second to catch my breath.
Then my brain slaps me awake. Get moving. You’re on borrowed time.
Glancing around, I dust off my clothes and contemplate whether to pull the manhole cover back into place—but I decide against it.
Forcing it open again later would be a hassle, and I need to move quickly to get back before dawn.
So I leave it slightly ajar and adjust my cap, making sure every strand of blonde hair is hidden underneath before heading towards the sidewalk where my rental car waits—my go-to ride for easy movement around the city during these secret excursions.
Using my own car would be stupid—Emily and Rafael are actively looking for me, and anything connected to my real identity is an invitation to get caught.
I haven’t been to Manhattan or Brooklyn in ages because of them, which might be why my search for Kayla has hit a wall. Maybe I’d find better contacts and intel out there?
I brush off the thought as I drive into Flushing. No point dwelling on what-ifs.
The hours slip by in a haze of dead ends and false leads, taking me through the seediest parts of the city—smoke-filled back rooms in famous bars, crowded alleyways, dim parking lots where headlights flicker and shady groups gather.
The kind of places I know secret deals happen and information flows like water.
It takes forever before I catch a break, finally tracking down Axe—the man who originally connected me to Hozier, my now-missing investigator. He looks older than his thirty years, thanks to the scar splitting his upper lip and his bad lifestyle choices written across his face.
“I haven’t heard from him in weeks,” he answers around a drag of his cigarette.
Fuck. “Do you know anyone else who’s reliable and fast? I need someone who can find anyone.”
Axe snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Try Luca on 12th. If he can’t help, he’ll know someone who can.”
I thank him and drive to 12th Avenue, but Luca is a complete waste of my time. A thickset man with dirt matted in his hair and a toothpick constantly flipping between his teeth. He looks nothing like an investigator and barely glances up from his phone when I explain what I need.
He just stretches out one meaty palm, waiting. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants.
I grudgingly dig into my pockets and press a wad of bills into his hand.
“Go meet Selina at the docks,” he says, still not looking up. “She’s got her ear to the ground. Or she used to. Could be dead for all I know.”
Fantastic. Very reassuring.
So off I go again, this time to the docks, hoping Selina isn’t dead. She isn’t.
“I don’t trade in missing people anymore. It's a bad business, you know? High risks, very little return,” she spits on the floor as she speaks. “Try Vince in Sunnyside.”
My eyes shut in exasperation, desperate words bubbling at the back of my throat. I don’t need to be passed along to yet another person. I need actual help. But nothing I say can convince Selina to take my case.
“If someone’s been missing for years like the person you’re looking for, they’re either very powerful or being held by someone powerful. Can’t help you, babe.”
Fucking hell.
I spend another hour driving around Sunnyside looking for Vince, only to find him drunk and incoherent. His slurred responses make it obvious he won’t be any help, and I don’t trust a drunk to find Kayla anyway.
My patience is stretched to breaking point, my eyes stinging with frustrated tears. I’ve spent all night running in circles, each name just a dead end leading to another dead end.
Finding someone competent who can help in Queens is clearly a bust.
With sinking dread, I realize I’ll probably have to risk venturing into Manhattan or Brooklyn if I want to make any progress. But not tonight.
I glance up with a heavy sigh, frowning at the slowly brightening sky.
What time is it?
My heart plummets when I check my phone—it’s past five.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I abandon the useless drunk Vince without another word and drive back to the East River, my head splitting with a terrible migraine, exhaustion pressing down on me so hard it feels like it could crush me.