Marjorie hurled the microfilm packet—not at Chen, not at Kellan.
Over the railing.
It fluttered for a split second like a pale moth, then vanished into fog.
Chen’s composure shattered. “No!” she snapped, stepping forward.
Kellan lunged too, rage flashing.
Harper reacted instantly—gun up, blocking their movement. “Back!” she shouted.
The lighthouse room exploded into motion. Chen reached into her coat—
And Marjorie, still moving, slammed her shoulder into Chen’s arm, knocking it sideways.
A gunshot cracked, deafening inside the metal tower.
My ears rang. My stomach dropped.
Harper grabbed Chen, wrenching her arms behind her. Chen fought, but Harper was stronger than she looked—anger makes you strong.
Kellan froze, eyes darting, calculating escape.
I didn’t think. I moved.
I lunged and grabbed Kellan’s jacket, yanking him backward off balance. His elbow slammed into the railing. He hissed, twisting to hit me.
The flash drive fell from my pocket, clattering on metal.
Kellan’s eyes snapped to it, hungry.
He dove.
I dove too.
My fingers closed around the drive first.
Kellan’s hand grabbed my wrist, crushing.
I gritted my teeth, breath coming fast. “It’s over,” I hissed.
Kellan’s eyes were flat and furious. “Nothing is over,” he whispered.
Harper’s voice barked behind us. “Kellan Mercer, you’re under arrest!”
Kellan’s grip tightened until pain shot up my arm.
Then Marjorie’s voice cut through, ragged but steady. “Matthew,” she gasped. “Give it to Harper.”
I turned, shaking, and tossed the flash drive toward Harper.
Harper caught it one-handed without looking, like she’d been waiting for this exact motion.
Chen’s eyes flashed with pure hatred.
Kellan released my wrist slowly, smile returning in a thin, poisonous line. “You just chose war,” he murmured.
Down below, more footsteps clanged up the stairs—real backup this time, uniforms, radios, the messy noise of actual law.
Harper cuffed Chen with a hard click that echoed through the lighthouse like a gavel.
Kellan was dragged down the stairs, still smiling as if he’d already planned the next chapter.
Marjorie leaned against the wall, breathing hard, blood dark on her coat.
I stood there, shaking, my wrist throbbing, my lungs burning with salt air.
The fog outside swallowed everything, but the lighthouse beam kept sweeping like it always had—steady, indifferent.
And as Harper looked at me with exhausted triumph, one terrible thought landed in my gut:
We’d thrown the microfilm into the ocean.
If the flash drive didn’t contain everything, then what proof was left to keep Chen and Kellan from rewriting the story anyway?
Part 22
The flash drive contained everything.
Not because we were lucky—because Bree had been paranoid enough to build redundancies.
On it were scans of the missing ledger pages, photographed in high resolution before anyone tore them out. There was dashcam footage from Marjorie’s car the night of Bree’s accident—foggy, shaky, but clear enough to show an unmarked SUV idling near the intersection and Chen stepping into frame, phone pressed to her ear, speaking to someone whose voice the audio barely caught: Kellan.
There were bank records, shell company links, voice memos Bree recorded on days she could barely move her tongue, forcing out words like she was pushing stones uphill.
There was even one file labeled MOM.
In it was a recording of Chen at my mother’s kitchen table, her voice calm as she threatened prison the way other people threaten rain.
By the time the task force realized Harper had the drive, it was already copied to three places: Harper’s private attorney, a state investigator Harper trusted, and a journalist Harper had quietly fed tips to for months because she’d suspected the rot was deeper than one man in a hoodie.
Chen didn’t get to control the narrative.
The court did, for once.
Kellan Mercer was indicted on federal charges—fraud, extortion, conspiracy, obstruction. North Harbor Group’s offices were raided. Executives who’d smiled on magazine covers were suddenly wearing wrinkled suits and looking down at their shoes.
