Chapter 3: The Ghost Returns

The words cracked through the air, slicing away any hope of hiding. My cover was blown, and there was no turning back. My pulse roared in my ears. This was it.

No more choices. No more running. Time to face him.

I swallowed hard, adrenaline flooding my veins. Every nerve fired at once. I stepped into the open, gun aimed square at Whitmore’s chest. Don’t hesitate.

I rushed down the last steps, gun trained on Whitmore. "Get away from her!"

My feet barely touched the ground. The world narrowed to the space between us—the cage, the gun, the monster who’d taken everything from me. I felt fire in my veins.

“Police! Don’t move!” I shouted, voice sharp as a whip.

My voice rang out, steady and commanding. Old training kicking in, even after everything. I kept my stance wide, gun level. No room for mistakes. I steadied my grip.

A flicker of surprise crossed Whitmore’s face, then he sneered. I saw the crack in his armor—just for a second.

For a split second, he looked rattled. Then the mask dropped, replaced by smug contempt. He straightened, squaring his shoulders, as if daring me to pull the trigger. I glared back, refusing to blink.

“Police?” he scoffed. “Since when do cops sneak in like thieves?” His lip curled. Arrogant bastard.

He laughed, cold and sharp. The guards must’ve been far enough away not to hear—he didn’t even bother to shout for help. Just stared me down, like he owned the place and everyone in it. I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

“Shut up!” I snapped, glancing at the girl in the cage. “What’s going on here?” My voice trembled with fury. I needed answers—now.

My voice cracked with anger. I shot a glance at Emily, who stared back with wide, glassy eyes. I needed answers—now. My hands shook with rage.

“Just a private collection.” Whitmore shrugged, edging toward the wall. “I pay the police enough to turn a blind eye.” The words oozed out, smug and poisonous.

He moved slow, casual, but I saw his hand inching toward a panel on the wall. My finger tightened on the trigger, warning him not to try anything. One wrong move and this would get ugly, fast.

“I’m not one of them!” I growled, finger tight on the trigger. “Three years ago, I failed. But not tonight.” My voice shook, but I meant every word.

The words burned as they left my mouth. I’d waited for this moment, haunted by what happened to Hannah. Tonight, I was taking back control. I wouldn’t let him win.

Whitmore’s expression shifted. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing me. Recognition flickered. I felt a jolt of satisfaction. He remembered.

He peered at me, searching for a memory. His lips parted, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. Then recognition hit, and his jaw clenched. I saw the fear, just for a second.

“Wait… I know you. You’re that girl’s— No way. You’re supposed to be dead.” His voice faltered. Gotcha.

He took a step back, shock warring with disbelief. I saw his confidence crack. The advantage was mine—at least for now.

“Surprise!” I sneered. “Erin Brooks is still alive, and I’m here to settle the score.” My heart hammered, adrenaline burning.

I stepped forward, gun unwavering. I wanted him to see my face, to know exactly who’d come for him. This wasn’t just about justice—it was personal. My breath came hard and fast.

Three years ago, I lost everything. My sister Hannah Brooks’s body was found on one of Whitmore’s properties, covered in bruises. All the evidence pointed to this so-called philanthropist, but the key evidence ‘disappeared,’ and the case was dropped. I relived it every day.

The memory didn’t just hit—it crashed over me, sharp and suffocating. Hannah’s smile, the way she’d light up a room—gone. I’d spent months chasing leads, only to watch the case vanish into thin air. Whitmore’s money bought silence, bought freedom, bought everything but my forgiveness. The rage never left.

I pushed the case anyway, got fired, then had a ‘car accident.’ My hands clenched at the memory. They tried to erase me.

The official story was a tragic accident—black ice, faulty brakes. But I knew better. Someone had tampered with my car, just like they’d tampered with the evidence. That was the night Erin Brooks died, at least on paper. But I survived.

According to official records, Erin Brooks was dead. That was exactly how I wanted it. I’d become a ghost. I’d waited for this moment.

I’d vanished, changed my name, built a new life in the shadows. But I’d never stopped hunting Whitmore. Tonight, the ghost came calling. I was ready.

Whitmore suddenly burst out laughing. “So that’s it! I knew no ordinary thief could get past my security.” He sounded almost impressed. My skin crawled.

His laughter echoed off the stone walls, ugly and triumphant. He leaned against the cage, eyes glinting with malice. For a second, I wondered if he’d planned for this all along. My jaw clenched.

His gaze turned lethal. “But you made a mistake, Erin. You shouldn’t have come alone.” I felt the threat in every word. My muscles tensed.