Amelia didn't know where she was driving.
She just knew she couldn't stay in that house. Not with the locked room. Not with the symbol on the wall. Not with the folder burning a hole in her jacket.
The city blurred past her windows. Streets she didn't recognize. Names she didn't care about.
She pulled into a parking lot – a grocery store, generic and anonymous – and sat in the car with the engine running.
The folder was on the passenger seat.
She'd read it once. Now she needed to read it again.
Amelia pulled out the photograph first. Her father. Victor Rossi. Standing shoulder to shoulder like they were friends.
Partners.
She'd never seen her father look so young. So alive. Before the drinking. Before the fear. Before he started looking over his shoulder every time a car drove past the house.
What happened to you? she thought. What did you do?
She set the photograph aside and picked up the newspaper clippings.
WAREHOUSE FIRE CLAIMS FIVE LIVES
ARSON INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY
HAYES FAMILY DECLINES TO COMMENT
VICTOR ROSSI RELEASED WITHOUT CHARGES
She read each one carefully, piecing together the timeline.
July 15, 2002 – The fire. A warehouse on the edge of the city. Five people inside. Only two survived.
July 16, 2002 – Investigators found evidence of accelerant. Arson.
July 20, 2002 – Victor Rossi was questioned. Released.
August 1, 2002 – The case went cold.
Amelia's throat tightened.
Five people.
One of them was a six-year-old girl in a yellow dress.
Sarah Hayes.
Ethan's sister.
She picked up the letter next.
Dear Mr. Rossi,
The debt is paid. The child is gone. We are even.
– Harold Hayes
Amelia read it three times.
The debt is paid.
The child is gone.
We are even.
She thought about the locked room. The files. The photograph of the little girl reaching up.
Ethan said he didn't know who she was.
He lied.
She picked up the last photograph.
Herself. Age five. Standing in front of the same warehouse. Wearing the same yellow dress.
The same yellow dress.
On the back: The other girl. The one who got away.
Amelia's hands were shaking.
She turned the photograph over and looked at her own face. Five years old. Dark hair. A smile that didn't reach her eyes.
She didn't remember this day.
She didn't remember this dress.
She didn't remember the warehouse.
But someone had taken this photograph. Someone had written on the back. Someone had kept it for twenty years.
Who?
She flipped through the folder again. Looking for a name. A signature. Anything.
And then she found it.
Tucked behind the last newspaper clipping, folded so small she'd almost missed it.
A handwritten note.
Not old like the letter. Fresh. Recent. Written in black ink on a piece of white paper.
Ask him about the Rossi file. The one he keeps in the locked safe.
He won't tell you. So I will.
There's more than one kind of debt.
– V
V.
Victoria.
Amelia stared at the letter.
Victoria gave her the folder. Victoria wrote the note.
Why?
She thought about Victoria's words in the garden.
"I'm not the villain in your story, Amelia. But I'm not the hero, either."
Then what are you? Amelia thought. What do you want?
She tucked the note back into the folder and started the car.
She wasn't going home.
She was going to find out who Victoria Chen really was.
___________
The address was in the folder.
Victoria's address. Written on the back of one of the newspaper clippings, so faint that Amelia almost missed it.
She drove across the city, through neighborhoods she'd never seen, until she reached a small apartment building on a quiet street.
She parked across the road and sat for a moment, watching the building.
Is this a trap?
Probably.
But she'd come this far.
Amelia got out of the car and walked to the front door.
She didn't have to knock.
Victoria was already there, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed.
"I was wondering how long it would take you," she said.
"You knew I'd come."
"I hoped you would." Victoria stepped aside. "Come in. We have a lot to talk about."
Amelia hesitated.
This is dangerous, she thought. She's not your friend.
But she needed answers.
She stepped inside.
___________
Victoria's apartment was small. Clean. Barely lived in.
No photographs on the walls. No books on the shelves. Just a couch, a table, and a window that faced the street.
"Tea?" Victoria asked.
"No."
"Suit yourself."
Victoria sat on the couch. Amelia remained standing.
"Why did you give me that folder?" Amelia asked.
"Because you deserve to know the truth."
"Whose truth? Yours?"
Victoria sighed. "I've worked for Ethan for seven years. I've watched him build this company, protect his people, fight his family. I've been loyal to him."
"But?"
"But he's not the same man he was before you."
Amelia's jaw tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means he's distracted. It means he's making mistakes. It means he's keeping secrets from you that he should have told you the day he put that ring on your finger."
"Like what?"
Victoria leaned forward. Her eyes were dark. Serious.
"Like the fact that your father didn't just work for Rossi. He was Rossi's partner."
Amelia's blood went cold.
"The fire," Victoria continued. "The one that killed Ethan's sister. Your father was there."
"No."
"Yes."
"You're lying."
"I'm not." Victoria stood up. Walked to a drawer by the window. Pulled out another folder – thicker than the first. "I've been collecting evidence for years. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone. Because I wanted to protect Ethan from the truth."
She held out the folder.
"Your father didn't just survive the fire. He started it."
Amelia didn't take the folder.
Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Her father.
The fire.
Ethan's sister.
"Read it," Victoria said. "Or don't. But you came here for answers. These are the only ones I have."
Amelia took the folder.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold it.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
Victoria looked at her for a long moment. Her expression softened. Just slightly.
"Because someone should have told me the truth before I wasted ten years on a man who was never going to love me back."
__________
Amelia didn't stay.
She walked out of Victoria's apartment, the new folder pressed against her chest, her mind racing.
Her father started the fire.
Her father killed Ethan's sister.
Her father was Rossi's partner.
She got into the car and sat there, staring at the steering wheel.
She thought about her father. The way he'd looked at her when he handed her the marriage contract. The way he'd said "It's already done" like he had no choice.
He'd had a choice.
He'd always had a choice.
He chose Rossi. He chose the fire. He chose to destroy the Hayes family.
And then he chose to sell his daughter to the son of the man he'd betrayed.
Amelia's phone buzzed.
She looked down.
Ethan: Where are you?
She stared at the screen.
She should tell him. Should call him. Should go home.
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
Not until she knew everything.
She typed back: Out. Need air. I'll be home soon.
Then she turned off her phone and drove to the only place she had left.
Her father's house.