Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
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Vincent wanted to take twenty armed men to the abandoned circus grounds.
I convinced him to bring two.
“If Isabella is alive, she may run the moment she sees an army,” I said.
“And if it's a trap?”
“Then twenty men won't make us smarter.”
He gave me a look that suggested he hated how reasonable I sounded.
We left the estate after midnight in an unmarked black SUV. The city lights faded behind us as we approached the grounds where I had once performed, where my career had ended, and where someone had apparently begun rewriting my life.
The old circus tent was gone. Rusted trailers stood in the weeds, and the ticket booth had collapsed beneath years of rain.
A single light burned inside the former rehearsal building.
Vincent stepped in front of me.
“Stay behind me.”
“Vincent.”
He glanced back.
“Please,” he said, his voice quieter. “Just this once.”
I nodded.
Inside, dust hung in the air. A woman stood beside a cracked mirror, her dark hair streaked with gray. She wore a long coat and kept one hand inside a pocket.
When she turned, Vincent stopped breathing.
“Isabella?”
She looked older, thinner, and exhausted.
But the scar beneath her ear was unmistakable.
For several seconds, neither sibling moved.
Then Isabella crossed the room and slapped Vincent across the face.
“You took seven years to find me.”
Vincent accepted the blow without flinching.
“I buried you.”
“You buried a stranger.”
His expression crumpled.
“Why didn't you come home?”
“Because our father would have killed me. And because I knew what he had done to Grace.”
I stepped forward.
“What did he do?”
Isabella looked at me, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Your mother worked as a medical administrator for one of our father's private clinics. She discovered that he had been paying people to falsify patient records, steal identities, and move children through a network of supposedly legitimate charities.”
The word children made my stomach twist.
“Project Lark,” I whispered.
Isabella nodded.
“It began as a private adoption program. Then your father discovered how much money powerful people would pay to obtain records, silence witnesses, and make inconvenient identities disappear.”
Vincent's face hardened.
“My father was a criminal. I knew that. But this?”
“He was worse than you ever imagined.”
Isabella reached into her coat and produced a small metal key.
“Your mother found proof that one of the babies moved through Project Lark was connected to our family. When she tried to expose it, Anthony arranged for her to be watched.”
“My mother died of cancer,” I said.
Isabella's expression softened.
“She was sick, Grace. But she was also frightened. She knew someone had been tampering with her medication. She never had enough proof to accuse anyone.”
My knees weakened.
For years, I had watched my mother grow thinner, blaming the disease that eventually took her. The idea that someone might have made those final months worse filled me with a rage so fierce I could barely speak.
“Why was I targeted?” I asked.
“Because the night of your accident, you were carrying a bag that belonged to your mother. You had no idea what was inside.”
I remembered the small canvas bag I had brought backstage. It had disappeared after I was taken to the hospital.
“What was in it?”
“A copy of the original Project Lark ledger.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Vanessa's family?”
“Her father handled the money. Vanessa helped him find people who could get close to witnesses without attracting attention. When Grace survived the accident, they assumed the evidence had been destroyed.”
“Then why stage the stunt at the engagement party?” I asked.
Isabella looked toward the broken windows.
“Because Vanessa learned Grace had kept a box of old circus photographs. She didn't know whether the ledger was hidden among them. She wanted to frighten Grace into revealing what she remembered.”
“I don't remember anything about a ledger.”
“I believe you.”
Isabella pressed the key into my palm.
“Your mother left the original evidence in a place Anthony never searched. She said only you would know how to find it.”
I stared at the key.
“Where?”
“The theater where you first performed.”
A noise sounded outside.
Vincent drew his weapon and signaled his guards to take cover.
Headlights swept across the windows.
Then came the crack of gunfire.
The first bullet shattered the mirror beside Isabella's head.
Vincent pushed me behind a concrete pillar as his men returned fire. Isabella ran toward a side exit, but a figure appeared in the doorway.
Thomas Reed.
He aimed directly at Vincent.
“Put the weapon down,” Thomas ordered.
Vincent's expression turned murderous.
“You killed Elena.”
Thomas smiled without warmth.
“Your family has been cleaning up its own messes for generations. I simply learned from the best.”
He raised his gun.
I grabbed a metal stand and hurled it toward his arm. The shot went wild, striking the ceiling.
Vincent tackled Thomas to the ground.
The struggle lasted only seconds before Vincent disarmed him.
But when we turned back toward the exit, Isabella was gone.
On the floor lay her coat, soaked with blood.
May you like
And beside it was a phone displaying a message.
BRING GRACE TO THE OLD THEATER, OR YOUR SISTER DIES.
