Gregory’s hand shook as he climbed the stairs. The air inside smelled of damp wood and old cooking oil. A muffled voice drifted from behind a closed door.
“Dad,” the voice whispered. “Do not leave again.”
Gregory pushed the door open.
Lillian sat tied to a chair, her wrists marked red, her hair tangled, her eyes bright with tears she had refused to shed. Behind her stood a tall man with a heavy jacket, a chain tattoo curling up his neck toward his jaw.
“So the king finally arrives,” the man said. “I wanted you to feel what it is like to lose something you love without warning.”
Gregory stepped forward slowly.
“Untie her,” he said. “Whatever you want, we can talk.”
The man laughed, but there was bitterness in it rather than madness.
“My name is Victor Hale,” he said. “My sister died outside one of your closed clinics. She needed help, and your redevelopment project turned that building into luxury condos. She bled in an alley while you celebrated profits.”
Lillian looked at her father. Her voice was quiet, steady, far older than sixteen.
“I called you so many times that week,” she said. “You said you were busy. I thought you would never hear me.”