Chapter 3: The Million They Buried

Someone was following me.

I noticed the footsteps halfway down the apartment corridor. When I stopped, they stopped, too.

My hand tightened around my bag. Beneath my jacket, my bandage felt damp again. I was still recovering from my wound, and I couldn't afford another confrontation.

"Odette Turner."

The stranger knew my full name.

I turned. A man in a gray jacket stood near the stairwell, watching me with an expression that was almost polite. I didn't recognize him from Odette's memories.

"Who are you?"

"Someone trying to save you a lot of trouble." His gaze dropped to the stain near my waist. "You should get that wound treated. It would be unfortunate if you collapsed before taking care of your little banking problem."

My heart skipped.

I hadn't told anyone about the bank.

"What banking problem?"

He smiled thinly. "The emergency trust your mother left you. The one-million-credit account you've suddenly decided to question."

The corridor seemed to narrow around me.

I'd barely finished speaking to the bank's fraud department. Either this man had access to its records, or he was connected to the people who had tried to take the money.

Possibly both.

"Who sent you?"

"I'm here to give you advice." He stepped closer. I moved toward my mother's apartment door. "Withdraw the dispute. Tell the bank you misunderstood the paperwork. Then forget the trust ever existed."

"And if I refuse?"

His smile vanished.

"Then the next person who comes looking for you won't bother asking whether you're all right."

My fingers tightened around my keys. He delivered the threat calmly, as if he were discussing an appointment.

"You expect me to be scared?"

"I expect you to be sensible." His eyes shifted to the apartment door. "Whatever you're looking for in there, leave it where you found it. You have until tomorrow morning to make the right decision."

Tomorrow morning. The same day another payment was scheduled from the trust.

"Tell Martin Cross he should have thought of that before someone forged my signature."

A flicker of recognition crossed the man's face.

It was brief, but enough.

He knew Martin.

"Be careful who you accuse, Miss Turner. People who make trouble discover how little anyone is willing to help them."

I slid my key into the lock without taking my eyes off him.

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a warning."

I slipped inside and slammed the door. After locking it, I dragged a chair against it and waited.

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number had sent me a message.

You have until 8:00 a.m. Withdraw the complaint. Keep the documents. Ignore this warning, and you'll regret it.

I photographed the message and saved the number. I couldn't prove Martin had sent the man, and I wouldn't make an accusation without evidence. But the deadline, the scheduled payment, and the stranger's knowledge of the trust were too closely connected to ignore.

Someone wanted that money transferred.

And someone was afraid I would stop it.

I checked the lock again before forcing myself to breathe. The apartment smelled of dust, old paper, and the floral detergent my mother had once favored. Most of the furniture remained beneath yellowed sheets. The curtains were drawn, and the windows were locked.

I checked them anyway, then returned to the bedroom.

I had come here looking for something my mother had hidden. If I remembered correctly, she hadn't trusted banks completely. Before her death, she'd told Odette that certain documents were too important to leave where other people could reach them.

In the manuscript, it had seemed like an insignificant detail.

Now it might be my only advantage.

I searched the wardrobe, bedside drawers, and shelves beneath the window. I found old photographs, two inexpensive necklaces, and letters tied with faded ribbon.

No documents.

Frustration gnawed at me. I needed medical care, supplies, and somewhere defensible before the apocalypse began. Every minute I spent searching was a minute I wasn't preparing.

Then I remembered the loose floorboard beneath the bedroom cabinet.

I shifted the cabinet aside, wincing as my wound pulled. One board sat slightly higher than the others. I worked my fingers beneath its edge and lifted it.

A small metal box rested in the hollow.

The key was taped beneath the cabinet. My mother had hidden it carefully, trusting that the right person would know where to look.

Inside lay a sealed envelope marked EMERGENCY TRUST — LEGAL RECORDS, a bank statement, and several authorization forms.

My pulse quickened.

The trust was worth one million credits.

I read the amount three times. It wasn't enough to buy an army or an entire fortified compound, but it could secure a safer shelter, proper medical supplies, and necessities before panic emptied the stores.

More importantly, it belonged to Odette.

Her mother had established strict conditions for withdrawals: verified identity, explicit consent, and separate authorization. Yet the documents showed an attempted account closure.

The signature at the bottom was supposed to be Odette's.

It wasn't.

The letters looked similar at first glance, but the final stroke curved too sharply, and the spacing didn't match her verified signature. Someone had copied its appearance without understanding the habits behind it.

I checked the date. The request had been submitted while Odette was struggling with the fallout from Martin and Yvette's betrayal. The paperwork claimed the required authorization had been obtained.

Someone had either bypassed the safeguards or convinced the bank that they had been satisfied.

My stomach tightened.

Martin hadn't merely betrayed Odette romantically. Someone had tried to strip her of the money that could have given her independence. Whether he had arranged the financial scheme himself or helped someone else carry it out, I needed proof before I could act.

I photographed every page, making sure the signatures, dates, and transaction references were clear. Then I returned the originals to their envelope and kept them separate from my other belongings.

Evidence first. Revenge later.

I called the bank's fraud department and explained that I was disputing the attempted closure of the emergency trust. After verifying my identity, I described the signature discrepancy and requested a hold on further transactions involving the disputed authorization.

"Do you have supporting evidence?" the representative asked.

"I have the original documents. The signature doesn't match my verified identification."

She reviewed the account. After several minutes, she confirmed that a fraud dispute could be opened. The disputed transaction would be held for investigation, and the closure request using the same authorization had been blocked.

However, access to the remaining funds depended on further verification and the investigation's outcome.

It wasn't the restoration I needed, but at least the account hadn't disappeared.

I requested a case number and asked for the available records of the attempted closure and suspicious payments. The representative explained that additional documentation would be required before the trust department could determine the next steps.

I wrote down the case number and ended the call.

My hands were trembling, but I finally had something I hadn't possessed since waking up in Odette's body: a way to fight back that didn't involve running.

I needed a lawyer.

A name appeared in the trust's correspondence: Elena Park, who had previously handled a review of the account's restrictions. I contacted her office and arranged a consultation about the disputed authorization.

Her advice was straightforward. Preserve the original documents, keep records of every communication, and avoid confronting the people I suspected until I had stronger evidence.

That suited me perfectly.

Martin didn't need to know how much I'd discovered.

I returned to the transaction history and examined it more closely. One entry stood out: a payment instruction naming Helix Research Solutions as the recipient.

I didn't recognize the company.

The description offered little explanation, but the amount was substantial. Another payment was scheduled for the following day.

Why would my mother's emergency trust be connected to a research company? And why was another payment being prepared while the account's authorization was under dispute?

I photographed the entry and saved it with the other evidence. I couldn't tell whether it was part of the theft or an arrangement Odette had never known about. Either way, I wasn't going to ignore it.

Outside, a vehicle passed the building. I froze until its sound faded, then checked the door again.

The stranger had given me a deadline of eight in the morning. I had no idea whether he would return or whether someone else would come to enforce his warning. I couldn't afford to wait until the deadline to decide what to do.

Twenty-nine days remained before the apocalypse.

I still needed medicine, food, and a defensible shelter. I couldn't spend all my time fighting my family, but surrendering the trust would leave me with fewer options when the world collapsed.

I secured the documents inside my bag and kept the threatening message backed up on my phone. Then I made a list of what I needed to do first: follow up with the bank, consult Elena Park, and find out what connected Helix Research Solutions to my mother's money.

The Turner family had taught Odette to trust the wrong people. Martin had called his betrayal love, while others had treated her inheritance as something they could claim without her permission.

I wouldn't make their mistake and trust their promises.

Tomorrow morning, another payment was supposed to leave the money they had tried to bury.

I intended to find out why.