My breath hitched.
Right next to the heavy, keycard-protected glass doors was a prominent, solid black architectural column—a literal black square built into the concrete facade.
Lily hadn’t just drawn a random scary house. She had seen the brochures. She had seen where her father was planning the paperwork. But why did she write “LOOK FOR THE BLACK SQUARE” if that was the place where they wouldn’t let me leave? Why would she tell me to go to the enemy’s doorstep?
Then, I remembered. Two weeks ago, Matthew had brought home a guest for dinner. A quiet man in a dark suit who kept checking his watch. Matthew had called him “the notary,” but Lily had been playing under the dining room table. Later that night, I overheard Matthew arguing with someone on the phone in the hallway, saying, “If the auditor at the Long Island City office looks too closely at the signature dates, the whole transfer will freeze. I need the hard copies approved before we board the flight.”
The hard copies. The real deeds. The original, un-notarized papers were still at their corporate office. If I could get to that building, to the “Black Square,” and find the auditor or destroy those documents before they were digitized and processed at the end of the business day, Matthew’s legal stranglehold over my life and my money would shatter.
I looked at the clock on the diner wall. It was 2:30 PM. The corporate office would close at 5:00 PM.
I had exactly two and a half hours.
Into the Lion’s Den
I thanked Maria, returned the iPad, and took the E train toward Long Island City. Every time the subway doors opened, I expected to see Matthew’s towering frame stepping onto the train, flanked by airport security or police officers he had lied to, telling them his “senile mother ran away.”
When I exited the subway station at 4:15 PM, the sky had turned a gloomy, bruised purple. Rain began to drizzle, slicking the industrial, warehouse-lined streets.
I walked two blocks until I saw it.
The building was imposing, windowless on the lower floors, made of dark, poured concrete. And there, looming beside the glass entrance like a monolith, was the black square column.
My chest tightened. I was a 68-year-old woman with a bad knee, trying to infiltrate a high-security corporate building. But the alternative was a gilded cage in France until the day I died. I adjusted my coat, smoothed my hair, and forced myself to walk with the confidence of someone who belonged there.
I pushed through the heavy glass doors.
The lobby was sterile, smelling heavily of bleach and expensive leather. A sleek, white marble desk sat in the center. Behind it sat a young receptionist with a headset, typing furiously. behind her was a set of heavy security turnstiles that required a badge to pass.
“Hello,” I said, putting on my best upper-class, authoritative voice. “I am here to see the chief auditor regarding the Matthew Vance file. There is an emergency discrepancy with the Brooklyn property transfer.”
The receptionist stopped typing. She looked at me, her eyes tracking my wet coat and my cheap carry-on bag. “Do you have an appointment, ma’am? And can I see your ID?”
“I don’t have time for an appointment,” I said, my voice rising slightly, channeling a desperation that was all too real. “My son is currently boarding a flight to Paris, and if these documents are processed with the current errors, Vanguard will be liable for a multi-million dollar fraud lawsuit. Look up the Vance file. Now.”
The word lawsuit worked like magic. She quickly began tapping on her keyboard.
“Matthew Vance… yes, I see the file. It’s currently in the third-floor administrative archives for final verification. But the auditor, Mr. Sterling, is already in a meeting regarding that account.”
He was already here? No, that didn’t make sense. Matthew was at JFK. Who was in the meeting?
“I need to go up,” I insisted, moving toward the turnstiles.
“Wait, ma’am, you can’t go up without a badge!” the receptionist called out, reaching for her desk phone. “Security, I need—”
Suddenly, the glass entry doors behind me flew open with a violent crash.
The Trap Snaps Shut
I spun around.
Standing in the doorway, drenched in sweat and rain, his coat disheveled and his eyes wide with a manic, terrifying focus, was Matthew.
He hadn’t boarded the plane. He had tracked me. But how? I had thrown the phone away!
Then, my eyes fell on my carry-on bag. The small, silver luggage tag hanging from the zipper. It wasn’t mine. Matthew had bought it for me the day before. It wasn’t just a tag—it had a tile tracker embedded inside it.
“Mom,” Matthew breathed, his voice a low, dangerous growl that cut through the quiet lobby. He took a step toward me, his shoes squeaking against the marble floor. “You missed the flight. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”
