THE GLASS ASSASSIN: SECRETS OF TABLE 14

The lockbox was made of solid steel, weighing nearly ten pounds.

It struck Victor square in the chest with a sickening crack.

He stumbled backward with a sharp grunt of pain, his hands flying up to block a second strike that never came. The heavy box hit the muddy ground, popping open on impact.

Dozens of small, black notebooks spilled into the rain.

I didn't wait to see if he fell. I dove to my right, scrambling behind the massive granite cross of a neighboring grave just as Father Thomas panicked and fired a wild shot.

The bullet chipped the stone inches from my head, sending a spray of sharp granite into my cheek.

"Don't shoot the books, you idiot!" Victor roared, scrambling in the mud to gather the ledgers. "Get her!"

I didn't run toward the street. Victor would have men waiting. Instead, I crawled furiously through the freezing mud, navigating the maze of headstones, heading toward the rusted iron gate at the back of the cemetery.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Answer One: Victor had orchestrated the entire nightmare. He used Julian's return to flush me out, used Keller to track me, and used Thomas to trap me.

Open Two: But Victor had just given me a massive piece of intel. He had admitted Mia was in Montauk.

I reached the back gate, hauling myself over the slick iron bars. I dropped into the dark alley behind the church, landing hard on my ankle. A sharp pain shot up my leg, but adrenaline pushed it down.

I needed a car. I needed a weapon. I needed to get to Montauk.

Two hours later, I was driving a stolen, beat-up Honda Civic down the empty stretch of the Long Island Expressway. The rain had turned into a thick, suffocating fog.

My clothes were soaked in mud and freezing water. My cheek bled sluggishly from the granite shrapnel. But my mind was hyper-focused.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the only two items I had managed to keep.

The burnt train ticket Keller had found on the dead waiter.

And the silver pocket watch Keller had given me before Victor's ambush.

I pressed the watch against the steering wheel, glancing at the tiny micro-SD card taped inside the casing. Keller had said it contained Rourke’s entire offshore routing history.

A dangerous idea began to form in my mind. A reversal of the power dynamic.

Victor had the ledger. He controlled Julian’s secrets now.

But Rourke didn't know Victor was a traitor. And Rourke didn't know Victor was the one who had attacked his men at the Queens train yard.

I picked up the burner phone I had found in the stolen car's glovebox. I dialed a number I had memorized eleven months ago.

It rang twice.

"Halcyon," a polished voice answered.

"Put Adrian Rourke on the line," I said, my voice cold and flat. "Tell him Claire from Table 14 has his fifty million dollars."

There was a long pause. Then, the line clicked.

"Evelyn," Rourke’s deep, menacing voice came through the speaker. "You have a lot of nerve calling this number. My men are tearing the city apart looking for you."

"Call them off," I said, accelerating the car into the fog. "You're looking for the wrong person, Adrian. Victor Hale is playing you."

"Victor is my most trusted—"

"Victor murdered Keller in Queens," I interrupted fiercely. "He took Julian’s ledger. He has my daughter. And he’s planning to use the ledger to buy out your cartel partners and push you out of the city."

Silence on the line. I could almost hear the billionaire’s mind calculating the angles.

"Why should I believe a word you say?" Rourke asked softly.

"Because Keller left me a parting gift before Victor killed him," I said, glancing at the silver watch. "I have a micro-SD card with your entire offshore routing history. Every dirty dime. If I die, it goes to the Feds. If you want it back, you meet me in Montauk in one hour. We kill Victor together. You get your empire back, and I get my daughter."

Rourke didn't hesitate. "Send me the coordinates."

I hung up, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.

I was making a deal with the devil to kill a demon. But I didn't care. I would burn the entire world down to get Mia back.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at the address listed on the burnt train ticket.

It was an abandoned lighthouse compound at the very edge of Montauk, perched dangerously close to a jagged cliff face overlooking the roaring Atlantic. The fog was thick, swallowing the beam of the lighthouse.

I parked the car a quarter-mile down the road and approached on foot.

The compound was silent. Two black SUVs were parked near the main keeper's house. Victor’s men.

I crept toward the back entrance of the house. The door was slightly ajar.

I slipped inside, my heart in my throat. The air smelled of damp wood and sea salt.

As I moved down the dark hallway, my foot brushed against something soft on the floorboard.

I looked down.

It was a heavy, expensive wool coat. Soaked in blood.

I recognized the custom tailoring instantly. It belonged to Julian.

Answer One: Julian had come here looking for Mia too.

Open Two: Was Julian dead? And if so, who had killed him?

I stepped over the coat, inching toward the dim light spilling from the living room.

I peered around the doorframe.

The room was a slaughterhouse. Four of Victor’s men lay dead on the floor.

And sitting in an armchair in the center of the room, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the stomach, was Julian.

My abusive ex-husband looked up, his eyes hazy with pain. He saw me in the doorway.

He didn't look angry. He looked terrified.

"Evelyn," Julian coughed, blood spilling over his lips. "He set us up. All of us."

"Where is she, Julian?" I demanded, stepping into the room, ignoring the bodies. "Where is Mia?"

Julian weakly pointed a shaking finger toward the ceiling.

"Upstairs," he wheezed. "But it wasn't Victor who took her."

The reversal hit me like a freight train.

"What?" I asked, stepping closer. "Victor said he had her."

"Victor lied," Julian choked out, his eyes widening in horror as he looked at the doorway behind me. "He... he used Victor too."

I spun around.

Standing in the doorway, bleeding from a superficial wound on his shoulder, holding a massive silver revolver pointed directly at my face, was a man who was supposed to be dead.