After three years in prison, I returned home expecting nothing more than to embrace my father. Instead, my stepmother answered the door and coldly said, “He d.ied a year ago. This house is mine now.”

The city at night was a predator, and tonight, I was its prey. I couldn't go to a hotel; my face was likely flagged, and I had next to no money. I couldn't go back to the house on Silver Lake without Reagan calling the police, who were clearly in the pocket of this Julian Vance.

I needed a ghost. I needed someone who knew how to disappear, and more importantly, someone who still believed in me.

I walked down to the docks, the salty, stagnant air of the harbor filling my lungs. This was where Dennis Logistics operated, or used to. The massive shipping cranes stood like giant, skeletal monsters against the dark sky.

Nestled between two abandoned warehouses near Pier 4 was a small, neon-lit diner called The Rusty Anchor. It was a place for fishermen, late-night dock workers, and people who didn't want to be asked questions. It was also where Maya worked.

Maya and I had grown up together. Her father had been a captain for my dad's shipping fleet before he passed away. When I was arrested, she was the only one who stood in the courtroom, tears streaming down her face, screaming that I was innocent until the bailiffs dragged her out. Over the last three years, her letters were the only things that kept me sane, though they had grown less frequent as Reagan’s grip on the city tightened.

I pushed the heavy glass door open, the little bell chiming softly. The diner was nearly empty, save for a tired-looking truck driver nursing a cup of black coffee in the corner.

And there she was behind the counter, wiping down the grill. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she looked exhausted, but she was still the most beautiful sight I had seen in three years.

I slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, keeping my hood pulled low.

"We're closing in ten minutes, hon," she said without looking up, her voice carrying a weary warmth. "But I can get you a coffee or a slice of pie if you're quick."

"I'll take the coffee, Maya," I said softly.

She froze. The rag in her hand slipped to the counter. She slowly raised her head, her brown eyes widening as she stared at me. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us spoke.

"Finnley?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

Before I could answer, she practically threw herself over the counter, her arms wrapping tightly around my neck. I held onto her, burying my face in her shoulder, feeling the solid, grounding reality of someone who cared about me. She was shaking, and when she pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"You're out," she breathed, searching my face. "They told me your parole was denied. Reagan's lawyer told everyone you were transferred to a maximum-security facility upstate."

"They lied," I said, my voice grim. "They lied about everything, Maya."

She looked around the empty diner, her expression turning cautious. "Come with me. The manager left an hour ago. We can talk in the back office."

She led me through the kitchen, locking the back door behind us, and brought me into a small, cluttered office smelling of old paper and coffee grounds. I sat in a squeaky rolling chair while she leaned against the desk, crossing her arms.

"I went to the house," I told her, the anger creeping back into my voice. "Reagan and Carter... they kicked me out. They told me my dad died of cancer a year ago."

Maya’s face fell, a shadow of deep sadness crossing her features. "Finnley... everyone thinks he's dead. There was a funeral. A closed casket. Reagan said it was his final wish to have a private ceremony because of the... the shame your arrest brought to the family. I tried to go, but they had security guards turn me away."

"He's not dead," I said flatly.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the voice recorder and the letter from the gardener. I pressed play on the recorder.

As my father's voice filled the small office, Maya's hand flew to her mouth. She listened in absolute silence, her eyes tracking the floor as the horrifying truth unfolded. By the time the recording clicked off, she was trembling.

"My God," she whispered. "They... they locked him away? To steal the company?"

"They framed me to get me out of the picture, poisoned my dad to make him look unstable, and then faked his death so they could dissolve Dennis Logistics and launder money for Julian Vance," I said, the puzzle pieces falling into place with terrifying precision. "Maya, do you know who Julian Vance is?"

She nodded slowly, a pale look on her face. "He's a major developer in the city now. He bought up half the waterfront property over the last two years. Everyone knows he's dirty, but he’s untouchable. He has the mayor, the police chief, and half the city council in his pocket. If Reagan and Carter are partnered with him..."

"Then my father is in grave danger," I finished. "He mentioned a place called St. Jude's. A private facility upstate. Do you know of any place like that?"

Maya closed her eyes, thinking deeply. "There's a private psychiatric sanitarium about three hours north, near the Adirondacks. It's called St. Jude’s Clinic. It's incredibly exclusive, heavily guarded, and handles 'discreet' cases for the wealthy. If he's anywhere, Finnley, he’s there."

"I have to go get him," I said, standing up.

"You can't just walk in there, Finnley!" Maya grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "You're an escaped convict in their eyes if you violate parole, or at least someone they can easily throw back in a cell. If Vance's people find out you're looking for him, they won't just put you back in prison. They'll kill you. And they'll kill your father."

She was right. I was running on pure adrenaline and rage, but rage wouldn't bypass security guards or unlock a high-security facility.

"We need proof," I said, gesturing to my backpack. "My dad left a ledger in his storage unit. It has all of Vance's transactions. If we can decode it, we can prove what they've been doing. We can force the federal government to step in—Vance can't buy the feds."

"Let me help you," Maya said, her eyes shining with determination. "Your dad was like a second father to me after mine died. I'm not letting them destroy what's left of your family."

I looked at her, feeling a profound sense of gratitude. For three years, I had been entirely alone. Now, I had a direction. I had an ally.