Aria opened the building’s front door like it might explode.

It didn’t.

Instead, it creaked open to reveal a small black box, unmarked, sitting neatly on the doormat like a gift from hell.

Lila hovered behind her. “Don’t touch it.”

“I’m not planning to,” Aria muttered. But she couldn’t look away.

It was the kind of box you didn’t wrap. The kind you delivered when words weren’t sharp enough.

Aria grabbed a pen from her purse and nudged the lid open.

Inside, nestled in black velvet:

• A tarnished St. Jude medal

• A single Polaroid photo

• And a USB drive

Lila gasped.

“That’s—”

“I know.”

The medal had once belonged to their brother, Nathan. He’d worn it the night he died—burned out in a car wreck neither of them had ever fully explained.

The official story was drunk driving.

The truth… was something only Aria knew.

She picked up the photo. It showed the totaled car, the street slick with rain, the date scrawled on the bottom in red ink:

OCT 19 — CHICAGO — 3:14AM

A time stamp from a night Aria had spent ten years trying to erase.

Lila reached for the USB, but Aria stopped her. “Not here.”

Back inside, they plugged it into Aria’s encrypted laptop. One folder. One video.

A grainy security feed. Parking garage. A young man stumbling toward the driver’s side of a dark SUV.

Nathan.

Seconds later, a woman stepped into frame. Long dark hair. Leather jacket. She grabbed his arm. Shoved something into his hand.

Car keys.

Then she turned to the camera just before they disappeared into the shadows.

It was Aria.

Lila stepped back like she’d been slapped. “You—”

“I didn’t know he’d crash,” Aria said quickly. “He wasn’t drunk. He was scared. I gave him the keys to get him away from the guy who was chasing him.”

“What guy?”

Aria’s voice cracked. “Marcus Hale’s cousin. He owed money. I got Nathan out—thought I did—but they followed him.”

Lila’s hands shook. “You told the police he was alone. That it was his fault.”

“I was trying to protect what was left of us.”

“By burying him?” Lila hissed.

Aria stared at the screen. The video ended. The silence screamed louder.

The message was clear: Marcus Hale had the truth.

And now, he was done playing games.