I'm holding a photograph of a dead woman.
Not just any dead woman. Locke's mother. I know because I saw her face in the portrait hanging in the main hall downstairs—younger there, smiling in pearls. Here she's maybe mid-thirties, standing outside some warehouse, arms crossed, looking at the camera like she's daring it to blink first.
On the back, in Dad's handwriting: *October 14, 2008. She knew.*
Fifteen years ago. The year of the bombing. The year the Irongate Family split down the middle and left a body count that made the evening news for three weeks straight.
My hands are shaking. I flip the photo back over. Her eyes are dark, like Locke's. Same sharp jaw. Same way of standing like the ground belongs to her.
Why the hell did Dad have this?
"Looking for something?"
I spin around so fast the photo slips from my fingers.
Locke's in the doorway. Still in his suit from the party, tie loose, top button undone. He's got a glass of something amber in one hand. His gaze drops to the floor where the photo landed face-up.
For a second he doesn't move.
Then he crosses the room in three strides, picks it up, and goes completely still.
"Where did you get this." His voice is flat. Not a question.
I swallow. "Your office. The lockbox."
"My father's lockbox."
"My father's lockbox," I correct. "It was in the safe. Combination was his badge number."
He looks up at me. Something's shifted in his face. The lazy arrogance from the party is gone. What's left is colder. Sharper.
"You broke into my office."
"You dragged me into this house and made me bleed in front of fifty people," I snap back. "I think we're past property rights."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs—low, humorless. "You've got balls, I'll give you that."
"Who is she?"
"You know who she is." He's still looking at the photo. His thumb brushes over the edge like he's trying to memorize it. "You saw the portrait."
"Why did my dad have her picture?"
Locke doesn't answer. He walks past me to the desk, sets his glass down, and pulls the lockbox toward him. It's small, gunmetal gray, scratched along the edges. The kind of thing you'd keep documents in. Or secrets.
He flips it open. Inside there's a stack of papers, a USB drive, and another photograph—this one of my dad, younger, maybe late twenties, standing next to a man I don't recognize. Both of them in suits. Both of them smiling.
"Who's that?" I ask, pointing.
Locke picks up the photo. His jaw tightens. "My uncle. Victor Irongate."
"The one who died in the bombing."
"The one who was supposed to die in the bombing," Locke corrects. He drops the photo back into the box. "Along with my mother. And about a dozen others. Funny thing—your dad wasn't supposed to be there that night. But he was. And he walked out alive."
My stomach drops. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying your father knew my mother." He picks up the first photo again, the one of her outside the warehouse. "I'm saying he was there the night she died. And I'm saying whoever set that bomb wanted her dead more than they wanted my uncle dead."
"That's insane—"
"Is it?" He steps closer. "Your dad goes into witness protection two weeks after the bombing. Testifies against half the family. Gets a new name, new life, new daughter who doesn't know shit about where she came from. And now, fifteen years later, someone puts a bullet in him in a grocery store parking lot the day you turn eighteen."
I can't breathe. "He was protecting me—"
"From who?" Locke's voice is quiet now. Dangerous. "The family? Or from whoever killed my mother and made it look like family business?"
I want to argue. I want to tell him he's wrong. But the photo's still in his hand and the date on the back is burning a hole in my brain.
October 14, 2008.
The same night Dad stopped being whoever he was before and became the man who taught me to check the locks twice and never use the same route home.
"She knew," I whisper, reading the note again. "What did she know?"
Locke's silent for a long moment. Then he reaches into the lockbox and pulls out the USB drive. "Let's find out."
He plugs it into the computer on the desk. The screen flickers to life. A password prompt appears.
I lean over his shoulder. "Try his badge number."
He types it in. Wrong password.
"Birthday," I suggest.
Wrong again.
Locke sits back, staring at the screen. Then he looks at me. "When did your mother die?"
The question hits like a slap. "I was two. Why?"
"Date."
I tell him. He types it in.
The drive opens.
There's one folder. Inside, a single video file. Date: October 13, 2008. The night before the bombing.
Locke clicks it.
The video opens on a dark room—looks like a basement, concrete walls, single bulb overhead. The camera's shaky, handheld. My dad's voice comes through first, younger but unmistakable.
"Are you sure about this?"
Then a woman steps into frame.
Locke's mother.
She's wearing a leather jacket, hair pulled back, face tight with anger. "I'm sure. Victor's planning something. He's been meeting with the Koreans. Guns, Locke. Enough to start a war."
"And your husband?" Dad's voice again.
"He doesn't know. Or he doesn't care. But I'm not letting Victor drag this family into the ground." She looks directly at the camera. "If something happens to me, this goes to the feds. You make sure of that."
"Nothing's going to happen—"
"Don't be naive." Her voice is sharp. "Victor knows I'm watching him. And he's got people inside. I don't know who yet, but when I find out—" She stops. Footsteps overhead. Her head snaps up. "Shut it off. Now."
The video cuts to black.
I'm staring at the screen. My heart's pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Locke's hands are flat on the desk. His knuckles are white.
"She was going to turn them in," I whisper. "She was going to give you to the feds."
"She was going to save us," Locke says quietly. "From Victor. From the war he was starting." He looks at me. "And someone killed her for it."
"Victor died in the bombing too—"
"Did he?" Locke's smile is thin. Sharp. "Victor's body was never identified. Closed casket. Family didn't want an autopsy."
The room tilts.
"You think he's alive."
"I think someone made sure my mother died that night. I think your father was supposed to die with her. And I think whoever gave the order is still out there." He ejects the USB drive, pockets it. "Which means you and I have the same problem."
"What problem?"
He picks up the photo of his mother, folds it carefully, and slips it into his jacket. Then he looks at me.
"We're both supposed to be dead."
Before I can answer, the office door slams open.
Vito's standing there. He's got two men behind him, both armed.
His eyes go straight to the lockbox. Then to Locke. Then to me.
"Well," he says softly. "Isn't this cozy."
Locke doesn't move. "You need something, cousin?"
"I need you to stop playing detective with your little pet." Vito steps into the room. The two men follow. "Father wants to see you. Now."
"Tell him I'm busy."
"It wasn't a request." Vito's gaze slides to me. "And she stays here."
"No," Locke says flatly.
Vito smiles. "You don't get to say no anymore. Not after tonight. Not after you made a scene in front of everyone." He jerks his chin at the lockbox. "What's in there?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Everything in this house concerns me." Vito crosses to the desk, reaches for the box—
Locke's hand closes over his wrist.
For a second nobody moves.
Then Vito yanks his arm back, and one of the men behind him pulls his gun.
I stop breathing.
Locke doesn't even blink. "You really want to do this here?"
Vito's jaw tightens. Then he laughs, low and cold. "Not yet." He steps back. "But soon. Real soon." He looks at me. "When he's done with you, sweetheart, don't come crying. No one's going to care."
He leaves. The two men follow.
The door swings shut.
I'm still frozen by the desk. My hands are numb.
Locke turns to me. His face is calm. Too calm.
"Pack a bag," he says quietly.
"What?"
"You're not staying here tonight." He picks up the lockbox, tucks it under his arm. "Vito just declared war. And if he knows you've seen what's in here—" He stops. Looks at me. "You're not safe in this house anymore."
"I was never safe in this house."
"Fair point." He heads for the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth, your dad wasn't supposed to die in that parking lot. Someone moved up the timeline."
My throat tightens. "How do you know?"
He glances back at me. "Because the kill order went out three days after you turned eighteen. Not before." His eyes are dark. Unreadable. "Someone wanted you alone first."
The floor drops out from under me.
"Who?"
Locke's silent for a long moment. Then he opens the door.
"That's what we're going to find out."