The heavy brass handle of the front door rattled as Victoria tried to turn it, her expensive designer heels clicking sharply against the cheap linoleum of the hallway. The metallic vibration traveled up through the wood, echoing off the cramped walls of our Reseda apartment like a warning shot.

"You're not dreaming, Harrison," I said, rushing forward and helping him to his feet. His body felt frail, like a skeleton wrapped in skin, but he was standing.

"We need to move, now!" Thomas urged from the doorway, scanning the corridor outside. "Rachel's private security detail just received an automated alert from the main gate. They'll be down here in less than two minutes."

Harrison leaned heavily on my shoulder as we stumbled out of the bunker and back up the spiral staircase toward the wine cellar. Every step was agonizingly slow, Harrison gasping for air as the years of captivity and drugged food took their toll on his body.

We burst out of the wine cellar into the main dining room of the mansion—and froze dead in our tracks.

Standing at the far end of the long mahogany dining table, bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, was Victoria Sterling.

She wasn't wearing her oversized sunglasses anymore. Her cold, piercing eyes locked onto us with absolute fury. In her right hand, she casually held a sleek, silver-plated compact pistol, pointed directly at our chests.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Victoria purred, a dark, dangerous smile playing on her lips. "A deadbeat husband, a vengeful ex-con, and a foolish little mother from Reseda. Family reunion of the century."

"It's over, Rachel," Thomas shouted, stepping protectively in front of Harrison and me, his hand slipping toward his jacket. "The whole world knows who you really are. The federal wire fraud data, the embezzlement records, the forged identity—it's all backed up on public servers right now."

Victoria didn't even flinch. She slowly raised the pistol higher, her finger resting lightly against the trigger.

"Do you really think a few leaked files can touch me, Thomas?" she laughed softly. "Money talks louder than truth. By sunrise, every federal prosecutor in this state will be dining at my table, just like always. And as for the three of you..."

Her gaze shifted to me, dark and venomous. "You should have stayed in your cramped little apartment in Reseda, Sarah. You should have thrown that stupid rag doll in the trash."

At the mention of the rag doll, something snapped inside Harrison.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Harrison shoved past Thomas, lunging forward across the dining room table before Victoria could react.

Bang!

The gunshot echoed like thunder through the cavernous mansion, shattering a crystal wine glass inches from my head.

Harrison slammed into Victoria, tackling her to the polished marble floor. The pistol went skittering across the floorboards, sliding under a heavy velvet armchair.

"Thomas, grab the gun!" I screamed.

Thomas sprinted across the room, scooping up the pistol just as Victoria’s two armed guards burst through the front double doors, shouting and drawing their weapons.

"Drop your weapons! Federal marshals! Drop them right now!"

The deep, booming voices didn't belong to Victoria's men. Behind the private guards streamed a half-dozen heavily armed FBI agents and local police detectives, their badges gleaming under the chandeliers, led by a stern-faced senior inspector holding an arrest warrant.

Thomas stood up, holding the pistol safely in the air, while Victoria struggled beneath Harrison on the marble floor, hissing curses like a cornered viper.

The senior inspector stepped forward, looking down at the woman who had ruled the Beverly Hills underworld for a decade.

"Rachel Collins, also known as Victoria Sterling," the inspector read coldly, snapping heavy steel handcuffs around her wrists. "You are under arrest for federal wire fraud, identity theft, kidnapping, and conspiracy to commit murder."

As Victoria was dragged away kicking and screaming into the night, her expensive designer blazer dragging across the dirty floor, the heavy weight that had crushed my chest for three long years finally lifted.

Harrison slumped against the edge of the dining table, burying his face in his hands as quiet, shuddering sobs wracked his frail frame.

I looked down at my phone in my pocket. It was vibrating.

I pulled it out. A text message from the babysitter in Reseda lit up the screen: “Everything is quiet, Sarah. Chloe is sleeping peacefully with her teddy bear.”