Chapter 4

Brad sat at the massive dining table, aggressively chewing a piece of dry toast.

He heard Kelly's high-pitched voice echoing from the hallway. He swallowed hard, a nasty smirk spreading across his face.

"Shopping?" Brad called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Make sure you put down some plastic sheets in the Porsche, Kel. You don't want her bringing rust-belt fleas into the leather."

Corrie walked past him without breaking stride. She didn't look at him. She didn't flinch. She moved with the silent, heavy grace of a predator ignoring a barking chihuahua.

She walked straight to the espresso machine on the marble counter. She grabbed a mug and hit the double-shot button, watching the black liquid pour out.

Dean glided into the kitchen, the heels of her slippers clicking softly. She had clearly heard the entire exchange.

Dean's face immediately morphed into a mask of overwhelming maternal pride. She walked over to Kelly and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Oh, Kelly, that is so thoughtful of you," Dean cooed, her voice loud enough to ensure Corrie heard every word. "Taking your sister under your wing. That shows true class."

Dean reached into the pocket of her silk robe. She pulled out a heavy, matte-black American Express card and pressed it into Kelly's palm.

"Take this," Dean instructed, her eyes darting toward Corrie's back. "Buy her something... appropriate. Don't worry about the price. We need her looking presentable for the gala."

Corrie lifted the mug to her lips. The scalding black coffee burned her tongue, but she didn't wince. Over the rim of the cup, she watched their reflection in the polished steel of the refrigerator. She saw the secret, malicious look that passed between mother and daughter. It was a look of shared, toxic excitement.

An hour later, Corrie was strapped into the passenger seat of Kelly's obnoxious, cherry-red Porsche 911.

The engine roared as Kelly sped out of the estate gates.

At that exact moment, two hundred miles away, the deafening roar of helicopter rotors tore through the sky over Pennsylvania.

Barron Griffin's private chopper descended rapidly, kicking up a massive cloud of brown dust and trash as it landed in an empty dirt lot on the outskirts of Blue Cloud Creek.

The town was a decaying corpse of the industrial era. Rusted silos and boarded-up storefronts lined the cracked asphalt.

Barron didn't wait for the rotors to stop. He threw open the door and jumped out, his black overcoat whipping violently in the downdraft. Two massive bodyguards flanked him instantly.

He held a military-grade tablet in his hand. A red dot blinked on the screen, marking the exact GPS coordinates of the IP address Arthur had traced.

Barron marched down a broken sidewalk, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He stopped in front of a collapsed, abandoned auto repair shop. The roof was caved in, and the stench of stale urine and rotting tires hung heavy in the air.

He lifted his leg and kicked the rusted metal door. The hinges screamed, and the door crashed inward, kicking up a cloud of toxic dust.

The inside was empty. A few stray cats shrieked and scrambled out through broken windows.

Barron's eyes scanned the darkness. In the far corner, resting on an oil-stained workbench, was a computer tower.

He walked over to it. The casing was melted. The motherboard inside had been physically destroyed by a localized thermite charge. It was nothing but a lump of scorched plastic and silicon.

Barron's stomach dropped. The realization hit him like a physical blow to the chest.

He had been played. The IP address was a ghost. A remote-controlled zombie terminal designed to waste his time. Night God was never here.

Before Barron could destroy the workbench in a fit of rage, Arthur's phone rang.

Arthur answered it. Within three seconds, all the blood drained from his face. He looked like he was about to vomit.

"Sir," Arthur choked out, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the words. "It's the hospital in New York. Leo... he found out you left to find the doctor. He slipped past the security detail. He got on a Greyhound bus."

Barron's heart stopped. A cold, paralyzing terror gripped his throat.

"Where is he?" Barron roared, grabbing Arthur by the lapels of his suit, nearly lifting the man off his feet.

"The bus terminal logs show he got off in Philadelphia, sir," Arthur gasped. "He's on the streets. Without his medication."

Barron shoved Arthur away. He spun around and sprinted back toward the helicopter, his lungs burning.

"Get us in the air!" Barron screamed at the pilot. "Philadelphia! Now!"

Back in Philadelphia, Kelly didn't drive toward the high-end boutiques of the city center.

Instead, she merged onto the highway, driving forty minutes out into the rundown, industrial suburbs. She pulled the Porsche into a pothole-filled parking lot in front of a massive, warehouse-style building.

The neon sign above the door flickered, buzzing loudly: Chic Outlet - Everything Must Go!

Kelly killed the engine. She turned to Corrie, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her face.

"Here we are!" Kelly chirped. She pinched her nose slightly, pretending to block out the smell of the parking lot. "This place has the best deals. It totally matches your... vibe."

Corrie unbuckled her seatbelt. She didn't say a word. She just got out of the car.

They walked through the sliding glass doors. The air inside smelled strongly of cheap plastic and industrial carpet cleaner. Racks upon racks of garish, poorly made clothes were crammed together under harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights.

A bored sales clerk chewing gum looked up. Seeing Kelly's designer clothes, the clerk immediately stood up straight.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.

Kelly pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Corrie. "Yes. I need to find something for my poor relative here. She's from the country. Something sparkly."

Kelly marched over to a clearance rack. She aggressively shoved hangers aside until she pulled out a dress.

She turned around and practically threw the garment at Corrie's chest.

Corrie caught it. She looked down at the fabric.

Her eyes instantly went cold. A sharp, dangerous thrill shot down her spine.

It was a royal blue evening gown, completely covered in cheap, plastic rhinestones.

But Corrie didn't see the rhinestones. She saw the cut. She recognized the asymmetrical neckline and the draping of the waist.

It was a knockoff. A horrific, butchered, sweatshop-produced counterfeit of the "Starry Night" gown she had designed last year under her alias, Miss Q.

It was an abomination. A wave of physiological revulsion washed over her, not just because of Kelly's pathetic trap, but for the sheer disrespect to her art. The crooked seams and stiff synthetic fibers were like a beautiful symphony being butchered by a tone-deaf singer. It was a public execution of her masterpiece.

Kelly crossed her arms, a look of pure, malicious triumph on her face.

"It's gorgeous, isn't it?" Kelly lied, her voice dripping with fake enthusiasm. "The blue will really bring out your eyes. You are going to be the absolute center of attention tonight."

Corrie slowly lifted her head. She looked at Kelly's smug, punchable face.

Corrie's lips parted. A slow, terrifyingly genuine smile spread across her face. It was the smile of a wolf watching a sheep walk into a slaughterhouse.

"You know what, Kelly?" Corrie said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "You're right. It's very... shiny. I love it."

Kelly's eyes widened in disbelief for a second before she masked it with a sneer. She couldn't believe how easy this was. The girl was truly a tasteless, pathetic idiot.

Kelly practically skipped to the register. She slapped Dean's black card on the counter to pay the $89 price tag. She didn't even ask for a bag. She just shoved the crumpled dress into Corrie's hands.

They walked out of the sliding doors, the harsh sunlight hitting their faces.

Kelly reached into her purse for her car keys.

Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from the street corner, fifty yards away.

"Help! Somebody help him!" a woman shrieked.

Corrie's head snapped toward the sound.

A young boy, wearing a baseball cap pulled low, was collapsed on the dirty concrete sidewalk. His body was convulsing violently, his limbs thrashing against the pavement. His hands were clawing desperately at his own throat.

Corrie's eyes locked onto the boy's blue lips.

She dropped the $89 dress onto the dirty asphalt.

Her muscles coiled like a spring, and she launched herself forward, sprinting toward the dying boy with terrifying speed.