Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Woods

I met Marcus at a secluded diner off the interstate three hours later. The rain had cleared, leaving behind a hard, freezing twilight that cast long shadows across the empty parking lot.

I slid Celeste’s black journal across the vinyl booth table.

Marcus flipped through the pages, his face darkening with every line. "Thorne. It was always Thorne. He used Celeste to embed herself in your mother’s household after your father 'died,' ensuring that no one ever looked too closely at the estate probate files."

"My father is alive, Marcus," I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of grief and fierce determination. "Celeste’s notes mention a private medical facility upstate—the Oakridge Sanatorium near Lake George. It’s registered as a psychiatric care home, but it’s owned by a shell company tied directly to Thorne’s private equity firm."

Marcus looked up, his eyes sharp. "If your father is still there, we can't just send the police. Thorne has judges and local sheriff departments on his payroll within a fifty-mile radius of that facility. If we make a formal raid, they’ll move him before we cross the property line."

"Then we don't make a formal raid," I said. "We go in quietly."

"Emma, that’s suicide," Marcus warned. "Oakridge is a high-security facility surrounded by private security and motion-activated surveillance."

"Not if we use Nathan against them," I countered. "Nathan is scheduled to meet with Thorne tomorrow morning to finalize the takeover documents before Friday. He’s arrogant, and he’s terrified of Thorne. If we intercept Nathan tonight and convince him that Thorne is planning to cut him out completely—which Celeste’s notes also suggest—we can use Nathan’s security clearance codes to get inside Oakridge."

Marcus stared at me for a long moment, a slow, appreciative smile touching the corners of his mouth. "You really are your father’s daughter, Emma. He used to outmaneuver the board before breakfast."

We tracked Nathan through his phone’s digital footprint. He wasn't at home; he was at his private club in Manhattan, drowning his panic in single-malt scotch after realizing the store’s security footage had been wiped from the local loop.

We intercepted his town car as it pulled away from the club’s private garage. Marcus’s SUV cut off his path in a deserted alleyway off Tenth Avenue, and before Nathan’s driver could lock the doors, Marcus wrenched the rear door open and hauled Nathan out by his silk tie.

Nathan slammed against the side of his car, his face pale under the streetlights, his eyes wide with drunken terror.

"What the hell is this—Emma?" Nathan gasped as I stepped out of the shadows. "Are you out of your mind? My driver has a panic button—"

"Your driver isn't pressing anything until you look at this," I said, holding up Celeste’s black journal and opening it to the page detailing Thorne’s plans for the Cayman shell companies.

Nathan’s eyes scanned the page. As he read, the color drained entirely from his face.

"She... she lied to me," Nathan stammered, his voice cracking. "She told me the Cayman accounts were for our future..."

"Celeste doesn't care about your future, Nathan, and neither does Alistair Thorne," I said, stepping close enough that he could smell the scotch on his breath. "Thorne is using you as the fall guy. The moment those share transfers go through on Friday, Thorne plans to dissolve your retail empire for tax write-offs and pin the entire embezzlement scheme on you."

"That’s... that’s not true," Nathan whispered, though his conviction was already crumbling. "Thorne promised me the chairmanship..."

"Thorne promised my father the same thing before he staged his plane crash fifteen years ago," I said coldly.

Nathan staggered back against his car, the reality crashing down on him. "Your father... your father is dead."

"My father is locked in a medical facility upstate owned by Thorne," I said, pressing the advantage. "And you are going to use your security clearance to get us inside tonight. Because if you don't, I release the video of you slapping me in your flagship store to the federal prosecutors within the hour, and you’ll spend the next twenty years sharing a cell with real criminals."

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Nathan looked from me to Marcus, then down at the damning journal in my hand. The arrogant, untouchable jewelry tycoon was gone, replaced by a terrified man realizing he was swimming with sharks.

"What... what do you want me to do?" Nathan whispered.