Chapter 4 - The Escape from SouthlakeThe heavy brass base shattered against Marcus’s cheekbone.
He let out a strangled roar of pain, staggering backward into the bookshelf, dropping the glass syringe onto the hardwood floor where it shattered into a dozen sharp fragments. Blood sprayed across his collar as he clutched his face.
I didn't wait for him to recover.
I grabbed my tablet, sprinted past his flailing arm, unlocked the office door, and tore down the hallway toward the front entrance.
"JULIAN!" Marcus bellowed from behind me, his heavy boots thundering against the floorboards. "SHE KNOWS! SHE HAS THE TABLET!"
Above me, the master bedroom door flew open.
Julian appeared at the top of the stairs, taking in the scene in a fraction of a second—me running with the tablet, Marcus bleeding from his face, and the broken glass in the office doorway.
"Sofia, stop!" Julian shouted, his voice dropping all pretense of gentleness, echoing through the house like a whip. "You step out that door, and you lose everything!"
I didn't look back. I reached the front foyer, slammed the electronic deadbolt open, and burst out into the freezing Texas night air.
Rain was pouring down in heavy sheets, soaking my nightgown in seconds as my bare feet struck the wet concrete driveway. I scrambled into my SUV parked near the garage, hit the engine start button, and slammed my foot on the accelerator just as Marcus tore open the front porch doors.
My tires shrieked against the wet pavement, throwing up a spray of water as I reversed out of the driveway, blowing through the gated entrance of our Southlake neighborhood, plunging into the dark, rain-swept highway toward Dallas.
My hands shook so violently on the steering wheel that I nearly lost control on the slick turns. Tears of adrenaline and terror blurred my vision, but I kept my eyes fixed on the road.
I tapped the dashboard screen, connecting my phone to the emergency hands-free dial.
I didn't call the local police. Marcus was right about one thing: Julian’s political connections in Southlake were deep, and a wife claims her husband is secretly drugging her with offshore medical trials would be buried under red tape before sunrise.
I called the one person who hated Julian Vance more than I did.
Detective Elena Vance—Julian’s estranged half-sister, and a lead investigator with the Texas Department of Public Safety's Financial and Organized Crime Division in Austin.
The line rang three times before a sharp, awake voice answered.
"Elena," I sobbed into the microphone, my voice breaking over the sound of the rain. "I have the trial ledgers. I have the photos. They've been using me for four months."
Silence held the line for two seconds, followed by the metallic click of a holster being strapped into place.
"Where are you, Sofia?" Elena asked, her tone razor-sharp and absolute.
May you like
"Heading south on I-35 toward Dallas," I rasped out.
"Listen to me carefully," Elena ordered cleanly. "Do not go to your apartment. Do not go to your office. Drive straight to the State Department precinct on Commerce Street. I'm calling the federal medical task force right now."
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