Eight-year-old Ivy Sterling stood at the checkout counter of Prescott’s Gourmet Market,

Arthur’s phone buzzed in his breast pocket thirty seconds after Sarah finished speaking. He stepped into the corridor, answering immediately.

“Speak,” Arthur said.

“Arthur, we have movement,” Marcus’s deep voice came through the line. Marcus was a former British Special Air Service operative who had run Arthur’s private security firm for over a decade. “Two black Suburbans with tinted plates just pulled up to the condemned property on Callowhill. Four men entered with pry bars and sledgehammers. They’re ripping the place apart.”

Arthur’s eyes hardened. “Victor’s men?”

“Confirmed. One of them is Donald Pike—Victor Sterling’s head of private security. Former vice detective, dishonorably discharged six years ago. They’re tearing through the drywall room by room. They know something is there, Arthur.”

“Can you contain the site?”

“Negative,” Marcus replied calmly. “They brought two local beat cops with them who are currently parked at the end of the alley, running interference under the guise of an active demolition inspection. If my team engages, it turns into an armed municipal incident. We need another way.”

Arthur glanced through the window of the suite. Inside, Sarah had drifted back into an exhausted sleep, while Ivy sat on the foot of the bed, carefully coloring a picture of a house with crayons a pediatric nurse had brought her.

“Stand by, Marcus,” Arthur commanded. “Keep eyes on the house. Do not let them leave with any physical lockboxes or hardware. I’m coming down.”

Arthur ended the call and walked back into the room. He walked over to Ivy, crouching down beside her chair.

“Ivy,” Arthur said gently.

The girl looked up, holding up her drawing. It was a picture of a large, sunny house with three smiling children, a woman with dark hair, and a tall man in a dark coat standing by the porch. Arthur felt a sudden, sharp tug in his chest, an emotion he had kept buried beneath decades of professional stoicism.

“That’s a beautiful house, Ivy,” he said softly.

“It’s our new home,” Ivy said with absolute, childlike certainty. “The nurse told me you have a big house with green grass and trees. She said bad men can’t get past your gate.”

Arthur looked at the small girl who had endured unimaginable horrors yet still held onto hope like a beacon.

“No bad men are getting through my gate, Ivy. I promise you,” Arthur said. He paused, his tone shifting slightly. “Ivy, do you remember when your mother put things away in the old house? Did she ever show you a special hiding spot beneath the floor?”

Ivy’s eyes blinked, and she set her green crayon down. Her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Mommy told me never to tell anyone,” she whispered, leaning in close. “She said it was our family’s secret box. She said if the mean men with the suits ever kicked the door in, I had to climb under the sofa and take it out.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. “Under the sofa?”

Ivy nodded. “There was a loose board where the rats scratched. But Mommy didn't put it in the wall. The wall was too wet. She put it inside my stuffed rabbit. Barnaby.”

Arthur stared at her. “Barnaby?”

“My rabbit,” Ivy said, her lower lip trembling. “I… I left him on the floor next to the formula. I was so scared in the storm, mister Arthur. Did the bad men take Barnaby?”

Arthur rose to his full height, his mind calculating with terrifying speed.

Victor’s men were tearing through the drywall in the crawlspace, ripping down lath and plaster, looking for a safe or an architectural stash box. They were looking for high-tech drives or legal binders. They would completely ignore a waterlogged, half-torn stuffed rabbit lying discarded on a filthy linoleum floor.

“No, Ivy,” Arthur said, his voice ringing with quiet authority. “Barnaby is waiting for you. And I’m going to go bring him home.”

Arthur walked briskly into the hall, meeting Keller, who was walking up with a thick manila folder.

“Arthur, Victor Sterling just filed an emergency petition with the county appellate division,” Keller said, his face grim. “He’s claiming Sarah is an unfit mother with active warrants for corporate theft, and he’s demanding the children be turned over to him as their legal next of kin. He has two city councilmen backing his motion. A hearing is set for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Let him file whatever he wants,” Arthur said, walking toward the private elevator. “He won’t have a company by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where are you going?” Keller asked, hurrying to keep pace.

Arthur pressed the down button, the elevator doors sliding open with a low chime.

“To get the evidence that puts Victor Sterling in a federal penitentiary for the rest of his miserable life,” Arthur said. “Have the medical transport team prep Sarah and the twins. As soon as the doctors give clearance, move them directly to the Crestview estate under armed guard. No one enters that gate without Marcus’s personal sign-off.”

“And you?” Keller asked.

Arthur stepped into the elevator, his eyes blazing with an icy fire.