The House Near Downtown
The memorial unraveled into chaos. Police flooded in, cameras appeared from nowhere, and people began dialing lawyers instead of loved ones.
Grant trusted none of it.
An empty casket meant someone close enough—and powerful enough—had constructed a flawless lie.
He summoned his private security team: precise, silent men who never smiled. Their leader, Kade Mercer, met him in the cemetery parking lot.
Grant lifted Addie into the back seat of a black armored SUV as if she belonged there.
“Where to, kid?” Kade asked, keeping his tone steady.
Addie stared at the leather interior like it came from another world. “Near the old garment blocks,” she said quietly. “Past the taco stand with the blue sign. Then right by the tire shop.”
The convoy sliced through Los Angeles traffic like a blade. Glass towers and glossy billboards faded behind them, replaced by streets that felt older—narrower, heavier, harder.
Addie guided them with unsettling precision.
At last, she pointed.
“That one,” she said. “The one that looks like it’s holding its breath.”
The house stood tall but exhausted—paint peeling, windows covered, all except one.
Grant didn’t hesitate.
He slammed his fist against the metal door. “Serena!” he shouted.
Nothing.
Kade’s men forced the lock within seconds.
Inside, the air was stale, like a place that resisted being disturbed.
“Search every room,” Grant ordered.
He found a thin mattress on the floor, a half-empty bottle of water, and in the corner, a silk scarf stitched with initials.
He knew that scarf.
He lifted it to his face, and the familiar perfume struck him like a memory.
“She was here,” he said, his voice cracking. “Recently.”
Then one of Kade’s men called out from the living room.
“Boss… you need to see this.”
Behind a wall panel sat a small surveillance setup—hidden cameras embedded in the ceiling trim, a recording system, a screen filled with timestamps.
Grant leaned closer.
And there she was.
Serena. Alive.
Paler. Thinner. Sitting on the mattress, staring into nothing, as if she were holding herself together by sheer will.
Then the footage showed someone entering with food.
Grant’s blood went cold.
He knew the man.
Miles Reddick.
Grant’s former driver for nearly ten years—the one who drove Grant’s children to school, the one who knew every gate code and routine. Grant had fired him months earlier over “lost paperwork,” a decision that had seemed necessary at the time.
Now Miles stood on the screen, proof that betrayal could wear a familiar face.
“Miles,” Grant growled.
But Grant didn’t believe Miles was the architect.
Miles looked like a tool, not the hand guiding it.
So Grant did what he despised most.
He asked for help.
