Chapter 3: Locker 27
The words stayed burned into Theodore's mind during the entire drive.
Prepare the second funeral.
Every traffic light seemed to last forever.
Every car behind him looked suspicious.
Twice he checked the rearview mirror.
The same black sedan remained three vehicles behind.
Maybe coincidence.
Maybe not.
He deliberately changed his route.
The sedan followed.
His pulse quickened.
At St. Augustine Medical Center, Sebastian watched Theodore's GPS marker disappear from the family tracking application.
He frowned.
"He left."
Eleanor looked up from the chair beside Rosalie's ICU room.
"Where?"
"I don't know."
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she slowly closed the novel she'd been pretending to read.
"He found something."
Sebastian turned toward her.
"You know more than you're saying."
"I usually do."
Their eyes met.
For a brief moment, the siblings looked less like grieving relatives and more like two chess masters calculating twenty moves ahead.
Finally Eleanor spoke.
"If Theodore is leaving the hospital today..."
"...then someone wanted him to."
Forty minutes later.
Grand Central Terminal.
New York.
Despite the late hour, the station remained alive with hurried commuters, tourists dragging luggage, musicians playing beneath vaulted ceilings, and security officers patrolling the concourse.
Theodore kept his baseball cap low.
He still felt watched.
Locker 27 stood in a quiet hallway near the older baggage storage area.
He removed the tiny silver key from his pocket.
His hand hesitated.
Rosalie had risked everything to hide this.
Whatever waited inside...
...people had already killed for it.
The key slid into the lock.
Click.
The door swung open.
Inside rested only one object.
A weathered leather journal.
Nothing else.
No cash.
No jewelry.
No documents.
Just a notebook.
The cover bore no title.
Only the same white raven embossed into faded leather.
Theodore opened the first page.
His heart nearly stopped.
The handwriting belonged to Rosalie.
If you're reading this...
...I survived long enough for you to find me.
He froze.
She had written this before the funeral.
Pages followed.
Every line became more disturbing.
Someone inside the Vale family is murdering witnesses.
I don't know who I can trust anymore.
Not Sebastian.
Not Mercer.
Maybe not even Eleanor.
Theodore turned another page.
If I disappear, it won't be an accident.
They've already infiltrated the hospital.
The police.
The funeral home.
Someone they call "The Curator" controls everything.
A folded map slipped from between the pages.
Several locations across New York were circled in red.
Warehouses.
Shipping docks.
Private clinics.
An abandoned monastery.
Each connected by handwritten arrows.
At the center of every line...
One name.
White Raven Foundation.
Theodore had never heard of it.
Yet Rosalie had written one sentence beneath the map.
This isn't a charity.
It's where they bury living people.
His skin went cold.
Suddenly...
A woman's voice echoed down the hallway.
"Sir?"
Theodore looked up.
A station employee smiled politely.
"Storage closes in five minutes."
He nodded quickly.
"I'll be right out."
She walked away.
Something felt wrong.
He watched her reflection disappear around the corner.
Then noticed one detail.
She never carried an employee badge.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the hallway went dark.
Emergency lighting activated.
Red.
Everything became crimson.
Footsteps.
Not one person.
Several.
Approaching from both ends of the corridor.
Theodore quietly closed the journal.
Someone spoke calmly through the darkness.
"Mr. Vale."
Another voice answered from behind him.
"Please don't make this difficult."
His pulse exploded.
Trap.
Three figures emerged wearing maintenance uniforms.
Too clean.
Too coordinated.
One smiled.
"We only want the journal."
Theodore backed toward the lockers.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The man's smile widened.
"Then you won't mind giving us your backpack."
Another stepped sideways, blocking the exit.
There would be no negotiation.
Theodore's eyes searched desperately.
Fire extinguisher.
Security camera.
Emergency alarm.
Distance to nearest stairwell.
Seven meters.
Maybe eight.
The tallest man reached into his jacket.
Not a gun.
A syringe.
Clear liquid.
Theodore immediately recognized the tiny white raven engraved on the barrel.
The same symbol.
The same organization.
His decision came instantly.
Run.
He hurled the leather journal directly at the tallest attacker.
Pure reflex.
The man caught it.
Exactly as Theodore hoped.
Because Theodore never intended to keep the journal.
He intended to create one second of confusion.
He lunged toward the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall.
Pulled it free.
Swung.
The heavy steel cylinder smashed into another attacker's shoulder with a sickening crack.
The man collapsed.
The extinguisher discharged across the hallway.
A blinding cloud of white powder exploded into the air.
Everyone vanished inside the choking haze.
Someone shouted.
"Stop him!"
Theodore sprinted.
A hand grabbed his coat.
Fabric tore.
He kept running.
Another syringe struck the wall inches from his face.
He burst through the emergency exit.
Alarms erupted throughout the station.
Outside...
Cold rain hammered the streets.
Theodore raced blindly through traffic.
Taxi horns screamed.
Pedestrians scattered.
Behind him...
The maintenance workers were already pursuing him.
Too disciplined.
Too fast.
Professional.
A motorcycle suddenly skidded beside him.
The rider wore a black helmet.
"Get on!"
Theodore didn't hesitate.
He climbed aboard.
The motorcycle launched forward just as one pursuer emerged onto the sidewalk.
The man calmly raised a pistol fitted with a suppressor.
Three muted flashes.
The motorcycle weaved through traffic.
One bullet shattered a bus window.
Another ricocheted off a traffic signal.
The third...
Struck the rider.
The motorcycle fishtailed violently.
Theodore grabbed the handlebars.
"Hold on!"
The rider's voice remained calm despite the blood spreading across their shoulder.
"Left!"
They shot into a narrow alley.
The pursuing sedan couldn't follow.
The motorcycle finally stopped behind an abandoned warehouse.
The rider removed the helmet.
Theodore stared in disbelief.
It was Detective Lucas Grant.
Grant grimaced while examining the wound.
"It's only a graze."
"You followed me?"
"I was trying to keep you alive."
Theodore looked around.
"How did you know I'd be there?"
Grant's expression hardened.
"Because I found another page from Rosalie's journal."
He reached into his coat and unfolded a bloodstained sheet.
Only one sentence had been written across it.
If Theodore reaches Locker 27... they're already watching him. Trust Detective Grant. No one else.
Theodore looked up slowly.
"Rosalie knew this would happen?"
Grant nodded once.
"I think..."
He glanced toward the rain-soaked skyline.
"...Rosalie wasn't trying to save herself."
He folded the page carefully.
"I think she was trying to expose something far bigger than the Vale family."
Neither man noticed the tiny blinking red light attached beneath the motorcycle.
A tracker.
Hundreds of meters away, inside the black SUV, a laptop screen displayed their exact location.
A woman smiled and whispered into her headset.
"Found them."
May you like
A distorted voice replied with chilling calm.
"Send the Collector."
