Chapter 4 The Midnight Safe

Nessa POV

The cab dropped me two blocks from the estate at 1:12 a.m. Rain blurred the streetlights. I checked my crutches before getting out, then pulled my hood over my head and tucked my injured foot carefully behind me.

I skipped the main gates and headed for the side hedge. Years ago, I had found a gap behind the bushes where the sensors didn't reach, so I lowered one crutch, squeezed through sideways, then retrieved it before moving on. The rubber tips pressed into the wet ground as I worked my way toward the terrace.

The house was dark, with no lights on upstairs.

I reached the terrace doors and rubbed graphite powder over the keypad, revealing the numbers clearly: 0-4-1-8. It was the code for the terrace door.

He had never changed it.

The lock clicked. I slipped inside, closed the door quietly, and leaned on my crutches until my breathing settled.

The house smelled like his cologne. I moved down the hall as quietly as I could, placing each crutch carefully so the rubber tips wouldn't scrape against the floor.

Brennan's missing page had raised questions I couldn't ignore. If my father knew something about his case, I needed to find out what he was hiding.

I reached the double doors and pulled out the spare key I had taken from his desk months ago. I turned it slowly and slipped inside.

The study looked the same, with its big desk, bookshelves, and the painting of me landing a triple Lutz when I was fourteen. I had always hated it.

I rested one crutch against the desk and felt beneath the frame until I found the small button.

Click.

The painting swung open, revealing the safe.

Using the manual code instead of the biometric scanner, I entered 0-9-1-2-0-4, the day my mother died.

The lock released.

Inside were hard drives, bonds, and a thick blue folder marked FEDERATION DISCIPLINARY / RESTRICTED.

I placed the folder on the desk and switched on my small key light.

The first page read:

SUBJECT: KESSLER, BRENNAN. INCIDENT DATE: OCTOBER 12.

Positive test for an anabolic agent.

Page two contained the suspension notice, the loss of his scholarship, and the cancellation of his national team clearance.

Page three was gone; a jagged paper stub remained in the metal rings where the lab receipt should have been. The staple had been pried open, leaving a tear in the paper.

I couldn't tell what the missing receipt had contained or who had removed it.

Then I noticed a yellow sticky note at the bottom of the folder, written in my father's handwriting.

Hale confirmed the log is cleared. Make sure Vale locks the secondary server by Friday.

My mouth went dry.

Hale. Dr. Simon Hale, head of the federation testing lab.

Vale. Adrian Vale, a senior federation director.

Why would my father be discussing a cleared testing log with them? And why did Vale need to lock a secondary server?

The note connected my father to the people responsible for handling federation records. It raised serious questions about Brennan's case, but it didn't prove he had never failed the test.

I photographed the note and the torn page, then returned the folder to the safe. I closed the door and pushed the painting into place.

Headlights swept across the ceiling.

Tires rolled over the gravel outside.

He was home early.

I reached for my crutches just as I heard the front door slam downstairs.

“Check the security feed for the terrace,” Victor ordered. “The sensors flagged something ten minutes ago.”

“Right away, Mr. Calder.”

I opened the study door a few inches. The main staircase was twenty feet away, and a security guard stood at its foot while the housekeeper carried Victor's coat toward the sitting room.

I couldn't cross the hallway without being seen.

I eased the door shut and tried the narrow service door beside the built-in cabinets. It led to a passage connecting the study to the laundry room, a route I had used as a child to avoid my father's guests.

The handle wouldn't move.

Locked.

Footsteps sounded outside the study.

“Has anyone checked my study?” Victor asked.

“Not yet, sir.”

“Do it now.”

I had seconds.

I tucked my phone into my pocket and gripped both crutches. The service door was locked, and I couldn't risk waiting until the guard entered, so I opened the main door just enough to check the hallway. The guard was coming up the stairs, and I slipped out and moved toward the service corridor, keeping close to the wall.

“Sir, the study is empty,” the guard called.

“Then why was the terrace sensor triggered?”

“I'm checking the footage now.”

I reached the laundry room. A wall clock showed 1:26 a.m. Beside the washing machines was an exterior service door with a simple thumb latch, which I pressed down before easing the door open.

Rain blew into the room.

Beyond it lay the staff courtyard. I crossed it slowly, planting each crutch before moving my injured foot. The wet ground made the rubber tips slide, and I had to stop twice to steady myself against the brick wall.

A voice crackled through the guard's radio.

“Movement detected near the service exit.”

A light snapped on above the laundry door.

I pushed toward the hedge, but one crutch caught against a raised root. My injured foot touched down awkwardly as I lost my balance and fell onto my hands, scraping my palm against the pavement. Pain shot through my ankle, and for several seconds I couldn't get up.

The service door opened behind me.

“Who's there?”

I dragged my crutches toward me and forced myself upright, keeping as little weight as possible on the injured foot. I couldn't run, so I moved behind the hedge, using the wall and the crutches to steady myself until the bushes blocked the guard's view.

Then I crossed the side street and reached the covered entrance of a closed shop.

No one followed.

My phone showed 1:29 a.m. I set the cab pickup point at a twenty-four-hour petrol station three streets away, and when the cab arrived, I checked its license plate against the app before getting in.

I gave the driver the address of a twenty-four-hour café near my apartment instead of my home.

“Long night?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

I watched the rear window until the estate was well behind us.

At the café, I chose a table near the window and checked the photographs on my phone. My father's handwriting was clear.

I backed up the images, then sent Brennan a message.

I found something in my father's safe. It mentions Hale and Vale. We need to talk.

I put my phone away and watched the street.

The missing lab receipt was still in my father's safe. I had a note linking him to the people who handled Brennan's case, but I still didn't know what had been cleared or what the secondary server contained.

My phone vibrated.

Brennan had replied.

Don't investigate this alone. Tell me where you are.

I thought about my fall on the ice: the wrong groove, the sudden twist, and the way my father had looked more angry than worried. I had no proof that my injury was deliberate, but I could no longer dismiss the possibility.

I looked at the photographs one more time.

Whatever my father was hiding, I was no longer willing to leave it buried.