My brother-in-law called from his business trip and asked me to water his plants. But when I unlocked his house, I found his frail, delirious niece curled up in a filthy spare room — and beside her was something that exposed the horrifying truth.

The precinct erupted into chaos. Julian Vance, an emaciated nineteen-year-old who could barely stand, had somehow vanished from a highly secure hospital wing. Detective Miller cursed loudly and stormed out of the observation room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

I knew this was my only window. If I went to prison tonight, Arthur would win. And Arthur would make sure Julian was found dead before the sun came up.

I twisted my wrists, wincing as the metal bit into my skin. Thanks to a reckless youth involving magic tricks, I knew how to dislocate my thumb just enough to slip a standard handcuff. It was agonizing, blinding pain, but with a sickening pop, my right hand slipped free.

I crept out of the interrogation room, keeping to the shadows of the chaotic bullpen. Every officer was focused on the dispatch radio, barking orders to lock down the hospital. I slipped out the back fire exit and into the freezing Connecticut night.

My car was still at Arthur’s estate, so I ran into the nearby woods, dialing the only person I could trust on a burner phone I stole from an evidence desk. "Marcus, I need you," I whispered, my teeth chattering.

Marcus was an investigative journalist and Elena’s old college boyfriend. He had always suspected Arthur was involved in her death. Ten minutes later, his battered Honda Civic pulled up to the edge of the woods.

I jumped into the passenger seat. "Drive," I ordered.

"Claire, your face is all over the police scanners. What the hell did you do?" Marcus asked, peeling out onto the dark highway.