LET GO OF HIM. YOU’RE NOT HIS FAMILY.” THE BILLIONAIRE’S FIANCÉE ORDERED SECURITY TO DRAG HIS 58-YEAR-OLD NANNY AWAY FROM HIS NINE-YEAR-OLD SON

I pushed Noah behind Clara’s heavy winter coats.

“Don't make a sound,” I breathed into his ear.

The closet door ripped open. Vance’s flashlight blinded me.

“Found you,” he growled, reaching in with a massive hand.

I didn't think. I reacted.

I unclasped the heavy, solid gold bracelet Adrian had gifted me for my five-year anniversary of working for the family. It was thick and heavy.

As Vance reached for me, I swung the heavy gold metal with everything I had, striking him squarely across the bridge of his nose.

Bone crunched. Vance howled in pain, dropping the flashlight and stumbling backward, clutching his bleeding face.

I grabbed Noah’s hand and bolted out of the closet.

“Run!” I screamed.

We sprinted toward the spiral staircase leading to the third floor. I could hear Vance cursing and shouting for his men below.

We reached the top floor and threw ourselves against the heavy oak doors of Adrian’s study.

Locked.

I frantically dug into my apron pocket, pulling out the master key ring I always carried. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped them twice.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

I jammed the key into the lock, twisted, and pushed. We fell into the study, and I slammed the door shut, throwing the heavy steel deadbolt just as a body crashed against the other side.

We were safe. For now.

The study was soundproof and heavily reinforced. But we were trapped.

I ran to Adrian’s massive mahogany desk and powered on his private laptop. It ran on an independent battery backup. The screen illuminated the dark room with a pale blue glow.

I pulled the silver watch from my pocket, flipped the hidden switch, and plugged the USB drive into the port.

A folder appeared on the screen.

STERLING PROPERTIES CONFESSION.

I clicked it. Hundreds of documents flooded the screen. Bank transfers, forged zoning deeds, and a recorded video of Clara explaining everything. But more importantly, there were emails between Sabrina and a black-market medical supplier, discussing the purchase of digitalis.

Proof of murder.

“Mrs. Parker?” Noah asked softly, standing by the window. “Why is the red light blinking?”

I looked up. On the wall, the mansion’s internal intercom system was glowing red.

Sabrina had hacked the system.

Her voice crackled through the speakers, cold and completely unhinged.

“You think you’ve won, Evelyn?” she taunted. “The internet router is in the basement. I smashed it ten minutes ago. You can’t send those files to anyone.”

I stared at the Wi-Fi icon on the laptop. It was dead. No signal.

“You’re trapped in a box,” Sabrina laughed. “And since I can’t get in, I’ve instructed Vance to pour gasoline under the door. I’m going to burn the study down. I’ll tell the police the mentally disturbed little boy started a fire, and the tragic nanny couldn't save him.”

My blood ran cold. I smelled it before she even finished speaking. The sharp, toxic fumes of gasoline seeping under the heavy door crack.

“You have three minutes, Evelyn,” Sabrina whispered over the intercom. “Slide the watch under the door, and I’ll let you both walk out.”

I looked at Noah. His eyes were wide with terror.

I looked at the laptop. We had the evidence, but no way to transmit it.

Unless...

I remembered Adrian’s strict security protocols. He never relied on Wi-Fi for his most sensitive corporate data.

I dropped to my knees and ripped open the bottom cabinet of the desk. There, hidden behind a false panel, was a hardwired, analog fax machine and a direct landline phone.

I grabbed the phone. The dial tone purred. It was a dedicated line, separate from the mansion’s main grid.

I didn't dial 911. The local precinct was five minutes away, but Vance would light the fire in three.

Instead, I opened Clara’s folder, hit print, and watched the analog machine spit out the most damning documents.

I grabbed the papers, punched in the fax number for the New York District Attorney's emergency overnight tipline, and shoved the documents into the feeder.

Beep. Beep. Sending...