The heavy mahogany door splinters on impact, the sudden crack echoing off the Italian marble like a gunshot.

The small coastal town in Maine is quiet in late autumn. The sky is a deep, clear blue, and the Atlantic Ocean stretches out forever beyond the cliff edge behind my house.

It is a modest house—poured concrete foundation, cedar wood siding, and large glass windows that look out over the crashing waves. But unlike the lake house in Geneva, there are no biometric locks, no subterranean server rooms, and no hidden dark-web routing stacks.

Just peace.

I sit at my kitchen table, sipping hot coffee, watching the morning gulls circle over the water.

My laptop sits open in front of me. On the screen is a digital notification from a major national publisher.

MANUSCRIPT ACCEPTED: The Paper Vault: How I Brought Down Chicago’s Most Powerful Family.

I close the laptop.

A sudden, soft knock sounds at my front door.

I don't panic. I don't feel that cold knot of terror that used to seize my chest every time someone knocked on the door of the Gold Coast condo.

I stand up, walk to the heavy wooden door, and open it.

Standing on my porch is a courier wearing a brown uniform, holding a clip board and a small, heavy cardboard package sealed with official red wax.

“Clara Vance?” the courier asks.

“Just Clara,” I say with a smile. “Clara Miller now.”

“Sign here, please,” he says, handing me the digital pen.

I sign the pad, and he hands me the heavy package before walking back to his delivery vehicle.

I bring the package inside and sit at the kitchen table.

The return address on the upper left corner has no name—just a box number registered to a federal holding institution in Pekin, Illinois.

Callum’s prison.

I break the red wax seal and open the cardboard box.

Inside sits a single, leather-bound notebook.

I open the cover. On the first page, written in Callum’s familiar, elegant handwriting, are three short lines:

You always were smarter than both of us, Clara. Mother tried to break you with force. I tried to break you with code. Neither of us realized you were the only real thing in that house.

Beneath the note lies a small, black USB drive.

I pick up the USB drive, feeling its weight in my palm.

For a second, the old habit returns—the accountant’s curiosity, the impulse to plug it into my computer, to look at the numbers, to unravel whatever final secret Callum has sent from behind iron bars.

I look out the wide glass window at the endless blue horizon of the Atlantic Ocean.

I open the kitchen drawer, pull out a heavy pair of steel wire cutters, and drop the black USB drive into the open jaw of the tool.

CRUNCH.

The drive snaps in half, the internal silicon chip shattering into useless black dust.

I drop the broken pieces into the trash bin beneath the sink, close the drawer, and pick up my warm mug of coffee.

I step out onto the back deck, feeling the crisp, clean salt air fill my lungs.

The sky is clear. The sun is warm.