For three years, Margaret Lawson existed only as a shadow in our investigation.
A name in documents.
A voice in a recording.
A ghost behind every disaster.
And now she stands twenty feet away from us on Pier 47 like she owns the night.
My pulse is pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears.
Beside me, Marcus mutters under his breath. “Well… that’s extremely inconvenient.”
Margaret’s gaze drifts calmly over the three of us, like she’s observing pieces on a chessboard. Not people. Pieces.
“You shouldn’t have come here tonight,” she says.
Adrian doesn’t move. “You invited us.”
Her lips curve slightly. “I left clues.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
The wind off the river pushes her hair across her face, but she doesn’t brush it away. Her eyes remain fixed on the flash drive in Adria
