Ellie's Forgotten Fortune

Chapter 9: The Journalist

The alley smelled of rotting garbage and motor oil, the kind of stench that clung to clothes and skin like a second shadow. Lena Hart pulled her hood tighter, her boots crunching over broken glass as she and Max moved swiftly through the maze of backstreets. The hostel was already a fading memory, its fleeting promise of safety replaced by the familiar rhythm of flight. Her heart still pounded from the encounter with Mrs. Davies, but she forced her focus forward, scanning the shadows for threats. Max led the way, his lean frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder

They ducked into a crumbling doorway beneath a flickering neon sign that read Lucky's Diner, though the place looked anything but lucky. The windows were boarded up, the paint peeling in long, curling strips. Max pushed the door open, its hinges groaning in protest, and they slipped inside. The diner was a husk—empty booths with torn vinyl seats, cracked countertops dusted with years of neglect, and a jukebox in the corner that hadn't played a tune in ages. Dust motes danced in the faint beams of moonlight filtering through the gaps in the boards. It was a temporary hideout, one of Max's many bolt-holes scattered across the city like forgotten secrets.

“Sit tight," Max muttered, dropping the duffel bag onto a booth table and checking the back exit with practiced efficiency. He rattled the door handle, ensuring it was secure, then peered through a small c***k in the boarded window. “We'll lay low till morning, then figure out our next move. No lights—no drawing attention."

Lena nodded, sinking into a booth, her back against the cool, sticky wall. Her fingers brushed the pocket watch tucked inside her jacket, its cool metal a tether to the life she'd lost and the vengeance she was starting to crave. Mrs. Davies's face lingered in her mind—those weary eyes, that shocked recognition, the way her mouth had formed a silent plea. It wasn't just the risk of exposure that gnawed at her; it was the reminder of how far Vivian's reach extended, how many lives she'd broken without a second thought. Lena's hands clenched into fists under the table. She wasn't just running anymore. She was done being prey. The anger that had sparked in the hostel courtyard had grown into a steady flame, warming her from the inside out.

Max slid into the booth opposite her, his eyes glinting in the low light. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out but not lighting it—too risky. “You're thinking too loud," he said, his voice a low rumble. “Spill it, Hart. What's eating you besides the obvious?"

Lena hesitated, staring at the scarred tabletop. Max was sharp, street-hardened, but he didn't do sentiment. Telling him about the rage building inside her, the need to tear down Vivian's empire piece by piece, would only earn a sarcastic quip or a warning about getting in over her head. Still, she needed to say it out loud, to make it real. “It's not just about staying hidden anymore," she said, her voice low and edged with steel. “Vivian didn't just take my life. She took Mrs. Davies's. Probably others, too—people who were loyal to my father, to the family. I want to hit her back. Hard. Make her pay for every life she's ruined."

Max arched an eyebrow, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Revenge, huh? That's a pricey hobby, Hart. Gets you noticed. Gets you dead. You think you're the first person Vivian's stepped on? She's got an army of lawyers, security goons, and who knows what else. You go after her half-c****d, and you'll end up in a ditch."

“I'm not talking about a con or some petty theft," Lena shot back, leaning forward, her eyes fierce. “I'm talking about taking back what's mine. The fortune, the name, everything. She thinks I'm gone—dead or broken. I want her to know I'm not. I want her to feel the fear she's inflicted on everyone else."

Max let out a low whistle, removing the cigarette and twirling it between his fingers. He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Big talk for someone who just bolted from a hostel because of an old lady with a rug beater. But... I see it in your eyes. You're serious, aren't you? That fire—it's new. Dangerous, but new."

“Dead serious," Lena said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. She unclenched her fists, laying her palms flat on the table. “I'm done running, Max. Hiding hasn't gotten me anywhere but deeper into the gutter. My father left me that pocket watch for a reason—maybe it's a clue, a starting point. I need to figure it out. And I need leverage against Vivian. Real dirt. Something she can't bury or buy her way out of."

Max nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “Okay. But you don't do this half-assed. You want to take on Vivian Whitmore, you need a plan. A real one. Names, dates, dirt. She's got people everywhere—cops on payroll, lawyers twisting the law, probably worse. Leverage means information. Evidence. Witnesses who aren't too scared to talk. And that pocket watch? Let's take a closer look."

He reached across the table, and Lena reluctantly handed over the watch. Max examined it under the faint light from his phone's flashlight, careful to shield the beam. The inscription inside the lid was faint, worn by time: To my dearest Ellie, the key to our legacy lies where the river meets the sea. Max frowned. “Cryptic. Could be a location—maybe the docks where the Whitmore shipping empire started. Or metaphorical. Your old man was into puzzles?"

Lena shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite everything. “He loved riddles. Used to hide birthday gifts with clues all over the estate. This... this feels like one of his games. But deadly serious."

Max handed it back. “Start there, then. The docks. But not tonight—too hot after your little reunion. Tomorrow, we scout. In the meantime, rest. You look like hell."

Lena leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment. Sleep wouldn't come easy, but she'd force it. Tomorrow was the beginning of something bigger than survival.

Across the city, in a cluttered office on the 15th floor of a nondescript building, Daniel Carter rubbed his bloodshot eyes and leaned back in his creaky desk chair. The newsroom was quiet at this hour, the hum of the city muted behind thick, rain-streaked windows. Stacks of papers littered his desk—photocopies of financial records, grainy photos of Whitmore family events, and a dog-eared notebook filled with scrawled leads and half-formed theories. He'd been chasing the Whitmore story for months, ever since a tip from an anonymous source had landed in his inbox like a grenade: Charles Whitmore didn't disappear. He was erased.

Daniel sipped cold coffee from a stained mug, grimacing at the bitter dregs. It was his third cup that night, and the caffeine was doing little to combat the exhaustion etching lines into his face. At 35, he looked older—haunted by too many late nights and dead-end stories. His latest lead was another brick wall: a former Whitmore employee who'd clammed up the moment Daniel mentioned Charles's name. But there was something in the man's eyes, a flicker of fear mingled with regret, that kept Daniel digging. Men like Charles Whitmore didn't just vanish without a trace. And women like Vivian didn't rise to power without leaving bodies in their wake.

He flipped open his notebook, scanning his notes on Vivian. Hostile takeover post-disappearance. Boardroom purge—loyalists fired or intimidated. Offshore accounts swelling overnight. And then there was the daughter—Eleanor Whitmore, the heiress who'd vanished almost as completely as her father. Rumors swirled through the underbelly of high society: runaway after a scandal, disgraced and disinherited, or worse—silenced to clear the path for Vivian. No one seemed to know for sure. Or if they did, they weren't talking. Daniel had hit every contact he had—old cops, rival executives, even a disgruntled maid—but Eleanor was a ghost.

He opened a browser window on his laptop and typed Eleanor Whitmore into the search bar. A few old society pages popped up—photos of a smiling teenager at charity galas, her auburn hair pinned up elegantly, her dress glittering under crystal chandeliers. She looked young, sheltered, with wide eyes that spoke of innocence rather than the cunning needed to survive a fall from grace. Daniel frowned, clicking through the images, zooming in on her face. The last one was dated three years ago, just before Charles's disappearance. After that, nothing. It was as if Eleanor Whitmore had been scrubbed from existence.

A notification pinged on his phone, jolting him from his thoughts. An email from his source, encrypted and unsigned, as always. Check the docks. Warehouse 17. Midnight tomorrow. Look for the red ledger. But watch your back—Vivian's eyes are everywhere. Daniel's pulse quickened, adrenaline cutting through the fatigue. The docks were a risky place to poke around—Vivian's influence ran deep there, her name whispered in connection to shipments that never made it onto official manifests. Smuggling, bribery, maybe even worse. But a lead was a lead, and Daniel hadn't gotten this far by playing it safe. He'd lost too much already—his marriage, his peace of mind—to back down now.

His mind drifted to his own haunted past. Five years ago, he'd been on the trail of a corrupt politician when things went south. A source turned up dead, and Daniel's wife left, citing the danger. “You're obsessed, Dan," she'd said. “It's going to get you killed." Maybe she was right. But the truth was all he had left. And the Whitmore case felt personal—like a puzzle he was meant to solve.

Daniel closed his laptop and grabbed his coat, deciding on a whim to head out. The docks weren't far, and a preliminary scout couldn't hurt. He needed air, anyway. As he stepped into the rainy night, he didn't notice the black sedan idling across the street, its tinted windows hiding watchful eyes.

Back in the diner, Lena couldn't sleep. She paced the narrow space, her mind racing with possibilities. Max snored softly in the booth, but she was wired. The pocket watch's riddle nagged at her—where the river meets the sea. The city's docks, where the industrial river emptied into the bay, were the heart of the Whitmore shipping empire. It made sense. Her father had built his fortune there, starting with a single warehouse. Maybe he'd hidden something—documents, money, proof of Vivian's crimes.

“I'm going out," she whispered to herself, glancing at Max. He'd kill her if he knew, but she couldn't wait. Grabbing a flashlight from the duffel, she slipped out the back door into the drizzling rain.

The docks were a labyrinth of cranes, containers, and shadowed warehouses, the air thick with salt and diesel. Lena moved cautiously, hood up, sticking to the edges. Warehouse 17 loomed ahead, its doors slightly ajar. Her heart raced. This was it—the starting point.

She crept closer, peering inside. The interior was dimly lit, stacks of crates casting long shadows. And there, in the center, a figure rummaged through a desk—Daniel Carter, unaware he wasn't alone.

But neither noticed the approaching footsteps. From the darkness, a group of men emerged, hired muscle with Vivian's insignia on their jackets. One raised a gun. “Who's there?" he barked.

Lena froze, her breath catching. Daniel spun around, eyes wide. The men closed in, and in that instant, their worlds collided in a storm of danger.