Pier 47 after dark was the kind of place where smart people turned around and went home.
The October wind cut across the Hudson River like a blade, carrying the scent of salt and decay. Half the streetlights were busted, creating pools of shadow that could hide anything. The wooden planks creaked under my feet, and every sound made me want to run.
But I'd come too far to turn back now.
I found a bench facing the water and tried to look casual while my heart hammered against my ribs. 8:05 PM. Maybe this was all some sick joke. Maybe I was sitting here alone because some stranger thought it would be funny to—
"Emma Chen."
The voice came from behind me, soft and careful. I turned to find a man in his sixties walking slowly across the pier, hands visible and empty. He was smaller than I'd expected, with silver hair and the kind of expensive coat that screamed old money. But it was his eyes that made me stay put—they were tired in a way that felt familiar.
"You knew him." It wasn't a question.
"I was your father's attorney for fifteen years." He sat down beside me, careful to leave space between us. "James Morrison. And before you ask, no relation to the family you're currently investigating."
The name hit me like a physical blow. "Morrison?"
"Ironic, isn't it?" His smile was bitter. "Your father thought it was hilarious when we first met. 'Two Morrisons,' he used to say, 'but only one of them's a snake.'"
My throat felt tight. "You sent the text."
"I did. I should have contacted you three years ago, but I was a coward. I told myself I was protecting you, but really I was protecting myself." He reached into his coat, and I tensed before he pulled out a manila envelope. "Your father came to see me the week before he died. He was terrified, Emma. Said he had proof that Vincent Morrison had been stealing from client accounts for years, using Richard's access codes and forged signatures."
The envelope felt heavier than it should when I took it. "What kind of proof?"
"The kind that gets people killed." James's voice was flat. "Bank records, email chains, recorded phone calls. Everything needed to put Vincent away for life. Richard gave it to me with instructions to get it to you if anything happened to him."
"Why didn't you take it to the police?"
"Because your father didn't trust the police. He thought Vincent had people on the inside—cops, prosecutors, judges. People who would make sure the evidence disappeared and the investigation died quietly."
I stared down at the envelope, my hands shaking. "So you've been sitting on this for three years?"
"I've been trying to figure out how to use it without getting you murdered." James stood up, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-something years. "Vincent Morrison doesn't just destroy people financially, Emma. He eliminates threats permanently. Your father learned that too late."
"What about Daniel? Is he part of this?"
James paused, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "That's the question, isn't it? I wish I had a clean answer for you."
He walked away without another word, leaving me alone with an envelope full of dynamite and a pier full of shadows.
---
I called in sick the next morning and spent three hours staring at the envelope on my kitchen table.
When I finally opened it, the contents hit me like a tsunami.
Bank statements showing systematic transfers from Morrison & Associates client accounts to offshore holdings. Email printouts discussing "account restructuring" that was really sophisticated theft. Photographs of documents bearing my father's forged signature, authorizing transactions he'd never approved.
And at the bottom, a handwritten note in Dad's careful script: "Emma—if you're reading this, Vincent won everything. Don't let him keep it. You're stronger than you know, sweetheart. Make him pay. —Dad"
I was still crying when Daniel called.
"Emma? I know you're not feeling well, but I have something to ask you." His voice was warm, concerned. "Morrison & Associates is hosting a charity gala Saturday night. Big event—investors, politicians, the whole power structure of the city. Would you be my date?"
My heart nearly stopped. A charity gala at Morrison & Associates. Access to Vincent's inner circle, his private offices, his world.
"I don't know, Daniel. That sounds way out of my league."
"You're not out of anyone's league, Emma. After our dinner conversation, I know you can hold your own with anyone in that room."
"I don't even own a dress for something like that."
"Let me take care of it. Please? I want you there."
Two hours later, I stood in a boutique that probably cost more to heat than I paid in rent.
"Mr. Morrison called ahead," the saleswoman explained, leading me past racks of evening gowns that looked like they belonged in a fairy tale. "He said to find you something spectacular."
I tried on dress after dress, each more beautiful than the last. The saleswoman finally produced a midnight blue creation that transformed me into someone I didn't recognize—someone who looked like she belonged in Vincent Morrison's world.
"Perfect," she declared. "Absolutely perfect."
While she processed Daniel's credit card—and I tried not to think about what this dress probably cost—I ducked into the dressing room and called Sarah.
"I need your help," I said when she picked up.
"What's wrong? You sound weird."
"I need you to create a complete digital identity for me. Social media history, employment records, anything someone might find if they went digging into Emma Chen's background."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Emma, how deep in this are you?"
"Deep enough that there's no way out but through."
"Okay. Give me twenty-four hours. I'll build you a past that'll fool anyone."
That evening, I was hanging the dress in my closet when something made my blood turn to ice.
Sewn into the lining of the garment bag was a small electronic device, no bigger than a coat button. A tracking chip.
My hands shook as I pried it loose with a kitchen knife. Someone had been watching me. Someone had anticipated this moment, planned for it, prepared for it.
But who?
My phone buzzed with a text from Daniel: "Can't wait to see you tomorrow night. You're going to outshine every woman there."
Another buzz, different number: "Pretty dresses for pretty girls who ask too many questions. Careful which closets you look into, little Chen."
The walls of my apartment suddenly felt paper-thin.
I grabbed the envelope of evidence, threw some clothes in a bag, and headed for Sarah's place in Brooklyn. If someone was watching me, they'd have to work harder to find me.
But as the subway carried me through dark tunnels, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was already playing catch-up in a game whose rules I didn't understand.
---
Saturday night, the Morrison & Associates building looked like something out of a movie about how the other half lives.
Black town cars lined the street, disgorging men in thousand-dollar tuxedos and women draped in jewelry that could fund a small country. The marble lobby blazed with light, and through the windows I could see ice sculptures and floral arrangements that probably cost more than most people made in a year.
I stood across the street, watching the parade of wealth and power, and tried to steady my breathing. Tonight I would finally penetrate Vincent Morrison's inner circle. Tonight I would have access to the people and places I needed to destroy him.
If I survived long enough.
"Where are you? I'm in the lobby waiting. - Daniel"
I checked my reflection in a store window one last time. The midnight blue dress fit like it had been designed for my body specifically, and Sarah had done something with my makeup that made me look like I belonged with these people.
Time to find out if I could act like I belonged too.
Daniel was pacing near the elevators when I walked in, magnificent in his black tuxedo. But when he turned and saw me, the expression that crossed his face made every risk I was taking feel worth it.
"Emma." His voice was soft, almost reverent. "My God, you're beautiful."
"You look pretty good yourself." I accepted the white orchid corsage he offered, trying to ignore how his fingers lingered on my wrist as he helped me put it on.
"Ready to meet the sharks?"
"Bring them on."
The elevator to the thirty-second floor felt like ascending to Mount Olympus. When the doors opened, I stepped into a world I'd only seen in magazines—crystal chandeliers casting rainbow light across cream marble, ice sculptures shaped like swans, and enough white orchids to stock a wedding.
And holding court in the center of it all, like a king surveying his kingdom, stood Vincent Morrison.
He looked exactly as I remembered—silver hair perfectly styled, charcoal tuxedo perfectly fitted, that predatory smile perfectly practiced. The young blonde on his arm looked like she could be his daughter, or his wife, or his prey.
"Emma," Daniel said, his hand warm on my back, "let me introduce you to some people."
For the next hour, he guided me through the crowd like I was a prize he was showing off. Investment managers and city councilmen, federal judges and media moguls—people whose names I'd seen in newspapers, whose decisions shaped the lives of millions.
I smiled and made small talk and pretended to be impressed by their stories of yacht clubs and summer houses, all while cataloging faces and names and connections. Every conversation was a chess move, every handshake a calculation of worth and influence.
I was listening to a Supreme Court justice explain why financial regulations were stifling innovation when I felt someone watching me.
I turned and found Vincent Morrison staring at me from across the room, his pale gray eyes sharp and knowing. He was no longer smiling.
Our gazes locked across the crowded room, and in that moment I saw recognition flicker across his face. Not confusion or curiosity—recognition.
He knew exactly who I was.
Vincent's lips curved into a smile that had nothing to do with warmth and everything to do with the satisfaction of a predator who'd finally cornered his prey.
Then he started walking toward me.
**End of Chapter 4**