The ride back to the precinct was shrouded in a tense, suffocating silence.

Vance drove with reckless speed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated the slick city streets.

My mind was a chaotic whirlwind of strategies and worst-case scenarios.

I needed to find Marcus.

If the police were completely compromised by my mother's influence, he was my only lifeline.

As we pulled into the underground garage of the precinct, my burner phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was an old, prepaid device I kept hidden for emergencies, a secret even my mother didn't know about.

I carefully slipped my hand into my pocket, shielding the screen from Vance's peripheral vision.

A single text message glowed on the cracked screen: Pier 44. Come alone. -M

My heart leaped into my throat.

It was Marcus.

He was alive, and he was waiting for me.

I quickly deleted the message, slipping the phone back into my pocket as the car jerked to a halt.

“I need to use the restroom, Detective,” I said, feigning a sudden wave of nausea.

Vance eyed me suspiciously, his hand hovering near the door handle.

“I'll have an officer escort you,” he replied smoothly.

“That won't be necessary,” I insisted, forcing a shaky smile.

“I just need a moment alone to splash some water on my face after seeing that wreckage.”

Reluctance washed over his features, but he finally nodded.

“Five minutes, Clara,” he warned.

“Then we are going back into that interrogation room to figure out her next move.”

I scrambled out of the car, my heels clicking loudly against the concrete floor as I hurried toward the stairwell.

I didn't head for the restroom.

I pushed through the heavy metal fire doors and sprinted up the stairs toward the street level exit.

The alarm didn't sound, a small mercy in an otherwise disastrous night.

I burst out into the cool night air, instantly hailing a passing taxi.

“Pier 44, and step on it,” I told the driver, tossing a crumpled hundred-dollar bill onto the front seat.

The taxi sped through the neon-lit streets, moving further away from the safety of the police station.

I was heading into the unknown, trusting the word of a man who didn't officially exist.

But as the dark, looming shapes of the shipping containers at Pier 44 came into view, I knew I had made the right choice.

A shadow detached itself from a stack of wooden pallets, stepping into the dim glow of a streetlamp.

It was Marcus, his white shirt now stained with grease and dirt, but his eyes as fierce as ever.