Chapter 2 - The First Rule of Surviving Declan ShawDeclan's house was not a house.
It was a fortress disguised as a mansion.
Black iron gates.
Security cameras.
Armed guards.
A stone driveway lined with winter-bare trees.
Clara sat in the passenger seat of his SUV while snow moved across the windshield.
She had packed one overnight bag.
A toothbrush.
Two sweaters.
Her laptop.
And the half-read novel she'd been trying to finish for six months.
It suddenly felt absurd.
Declan noticed.
“You didn't bring enough.”
“I thought I'd be gone one night.”
“You're not.”
She turned toward him.
“How long?”
“Until I know who is following you.”
Her fingers tightened around her bag.
“Days?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly weeks?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“And where am I supposed to sleep?”
“My guest room.”
“That's probably what every terrified woman in one of your crime novels hears before she's locked in a basement.”
Declan gave her a brief sideways glance.
“You watch too many movies.”
“I work for you.”
“Exactly.”
Despite herself, Clara almost smiled.
Then her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
Her apartment.
Taken from across the street.
The image showed her front door.
Underneath it:
YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED.
Clara went cold.
Declan took the phone from her hand.
His expression changed instantly.
“Marcus.”
“Yes?”
“Pull the last forty-eight hours of surveillance around her building.”
Marcus made the call.
Clara stared through the windshield.
“Why me?”
Declan didn't answer.
“Why did they choose me?”
“They may not have chosen you.”
She looked at him.
“They may have chosen what you found.”
The mansion doors opened.
Two guards waited.
Clara stepped inside.
The foyer was enormous.
Marble floors.
Dark wood.
Muted gold lighting.
Nothing gaudy.
Everything expensive.
Declan pointed toward the stairs.
“Guest room is on the second floor.”
She started walking.
“Clara.”
She turned.
“Don't open the bedroom door after midnight unless you hear my voice.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because sometimes people know how to imitate voices.”
She stared at him.
“You're serious.”
“Very.”
That night Clara barely slept.
At 2:43 a.m., she heard footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Measured.
Her heart pounded.
Then someone whispered her name.
“Clara.”
She sat upright.
The voice sounded like Declan.
Exactly like Declan.
She reached for the doorknob.
Then remembered his warning.
Don't open the door unless you hear my voice.
She froze.
The footsteps stopped outside.
“Clara.”
The voice came again.
She did not move.
Three minutes passed.
Then nothing.
In the morning, Declan was sitting at the breakfast table reading a newspaper.
Clara entered wearing yesterday's clothes.
He looked up.
“You didn't sleep.”
“There was someone outside my door.”
His expression hardened.
“There shouldn't have been.”
“They sounded like you.”
Declan looked toward Marcus.
“Who was on night rotation?”
Marcus's face changed.
“No one was on that hall.”
Clara's stomach dropped.
Declan stood.
“Show me.”
They climbed upstairs.
A security camera pointed directly at Clara's door.
Marcus pulled up the footage.
At 2:41, the hallway was empty.
At 2:43, the lights flickered.
At 2:44, a man appeared.
He wore a maintenance uniform.
His face was covered by a cap.
He walked toward Clara's room.
Stopped.
Looked directly into the camera.
Then smiled.
Clara felt ice move through her.
“Who is that?”
Marcus zoomed in.
The man turned slightly.
There was a small scar beneath his ear.
Declan recognized him.
“Evan Price.”
Marcus went pale.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because Evan has been dead for eighteen months.”
Declan looked at Clara.
The fear in his eyes frightened her more than the stranger had.
“What does that mean?”
Declan didn't answer.
Instead, he said:
“The person following you knows my dead.”
The investigation began immediately.
Clara returned to her audit.
Declan gave her access to every shipping file.
Within six hours, she found another discrepancy.
A container listed as medical equipment had entered the Newark terminal three times under three different company names.
Same container.
Same weight.
Different contents.
The declared goods changed.
The paperwork didn't.
Clara stared at the data.
“This isn't concealment.”
Declan stood behind her.
“What is it?”
“Replacement.”
She pointed.
“They aren't hiding one shipment.”
“They're making the system believe the same shipment moved three times.”
Declan leaned closer.
“So they can move three things through one record.”
“Yes.”
“What things?”
Clara highlighted the dates.
“All three times the container entered during a twenty-minute window when the security cameras were supposedly under maintenance.”
Marcus frowned.
“Someone inside is disabling surveillance.”
Clara shook her head.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The system logs still exist.”
She pulled up the raw data.
“These cameras weren't turned off.”
“Then why do the recordings disappear?”
“They don't disappear.”
She enlarged the file.
“They're being overwritten before upload.”
Declan stared at her.
“How?”
“Someone has administrator access.”
Marcus turned pale.
“There are only four administrators.”
Declan looked at him.
“Names.”
Marcus listed them.
Himself.
Two security managers.
And…
Clara.
She felt sick.
“Me?”
“You have executive access,” Marcus said.
“I never changed anything.”
Declan looked at her.
“I know.”
“Then who did?”
Clara studied the access times.
Her eyes widened.
“This account.”
She pointed to a hidden login.
SH-01.
Declan's face went completely still.
“What?”
“Your initials.”
“I don't use that account.”
Clara clicked deeper.
The account had been active for nine months.
It had accessed security footage.
Payroll.
Customs forms.
Private contracts.
And one folder she had never seen.
The folder was encrypted.
She looked at Declan.
“Can you open it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't create it.”
She stared.
“Then who did?”
Declan's jaw tightened.
“My brother.”
Elias.
The missing man.
The man declared dead six years earlier.
The first person in the room to betray Declan.
Clara remembered the photograph.
The warehouse.
The dead worker.
Suddenly every piece connected.
Or seemed to.
She turned toward Declan.
“Maybe Elias isn't dead.”
The room became silent.
Marcus whispered:
“That would mean he's been inside your company for years.”
Declan's expression was unreadable.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
A voice said something.
Declan's face changed.
“Repeat that.”
He listened.
Then looked at Clara.
“Put down the laptop.”
“Why?”
“Because we have a bigger problem.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“The Newark terminal is on fire.”
Clara stared.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone inside?”
Declan's voice dropped.
“One person.”
“Who?”
May you like
He looked directly at her.
“Owen Higgins.”
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