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.

Elena’s art studio was located in a gritty, industrial district in Brooklyn. I had kept the lease paid for the last four years, unable to let go of the sanctuary where my sister painted. It was a time capsule of her life, smelling of dried oil paint, turpentine, and dust.

Marcus kicked the heavy metal door shut and engaged the deadbolt. I guided a trembling Julian to a worn velvet couch and wrapped him in a thermal blanket.

"Where did you hide the key, Julian?" I asked, turning on a single, dim desk lamp.

Julian squeezed his eyes shut, his drugged, exhausted brain struggling to recall a memory from four years ago. "The painting... the one of the ocean. She was working on it the week she died. I taped it behind the canvas."

I practically flew across the room to the large easel in the corner. Elena’s final, unfinished masterpiece—a stormy, turbulent ocean crashing against jagged black rocks. It was beautiful and violent. I carefully unhooked the canvas from the easel and flipped it over.

There, taped to the wooden frame with a piece of yellowed masking tape, was a small, silver brass key.

"I got it," I gasped, holding it up. The metal felt heavy with the weight of my sister’s stolen justice.

Suddenly, Marcus’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, his face draining of color. "Claire. We have a massive problem."

"What is it?"

"My police scanner app. The NYPD just got an anonymous tip on our location. The dispatch said an armed and dangerous kidnapping suspect is hiding out in an art studio in Brooklyn."

"Arthur," I whispered, horrified. "He knows I kept the lease. He tracked my burner phone."

The heavy metal door of the studio suddenly rattled violently. Someone was trying to kick it in.