Chapter 3

Chloe, dressed in a chic outfit clearly stolen from Isabelle' s wardrobe, practiced a soft, slightly accented voice.

"Marcus, darling, I was so frightened," she rehearsed, looking at her reflection.

Mom and Dad watched, beaming.

"Perfect, my love!" Maria cooed. "He won' t know the difference."

They finalized the plan. They would call Thorne' s head of security, a man named Peterson. They' d claim they found Isabelle wandering, disoriented, near their home. A local hero story.

I watched them, a knot of ice in my stomach. They were so sure, so arrogant.

The news had been full of Isabelle Moreau' s disappearance for days. The police were searching, and Marcus Thorne had offered a staggering five-million-dollar reward.

"Maya, you' ll come with us, of course," Chloe said, turning to me. "You' re the paramedic who found her, who gave her first aid. It makes the story more believable."

I was to be their corroborating witness.

"Fine," I said.

I had to see this through.

The call was made.

An hour later, a black SUV, sleek and menacing, pulled up outside our shabby house.

Not just Peterson.

Marcus Thorne himself stepped out.

He was taller than I expected, dressed in an impeccably tailored dark suit. His presence filled our small street, radiating power and an almost physical coldness. His eyes, a startling ice-blue, swept over our house with a look of faint distaste.

Mom and Dad practically tripped over themselves to greet him, gushing about their "discovery."

Chloe stepped forward, her performance beginning. "Marcus?" she whispered, her voice trembling artfully. "Is it really you?"

Thorne' s gaze fixed on her. It was unreadable, like looking into a frozen lake.

He didn' t move, didn' t speak for a long moment.

Then, another car pulled up. A police car.

A grim-faced detective got out, approaching Thorne. He spoke in a low voice, but I heard every word.

"Mr. Thorne, I' m Detective Miller. We' ve just had a development. A body was recovered from the canal near the old shipping yards. We have a preliminary identification."

My blood ran cold.

The detective looked at Thorne. "It' s Isabelle Moreau, sir. I' m afraid she' s dead."

The air crackled.

Mom and Dad froze, their smiles wiped clean. Chloe' s face went white beneath the carefully applied makeup.

Thorne' s gaze, like chips of ice, moved slowly from the detective back to Chloe.

His voice was soft, but it cut through the sudden silence like a razor.

"If you are Isabelle," he asked, his eyes boring into Chloe, "then who is that?"