Noura's POV
The red laser beam swept across the hallway like a deadly ribbon, and I pressed myself flat against the cold marble wall, holding my breath until my lungs burned.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—
The beam moved on, and I darted forward, bare feet silent on the polished floor. My heart hammered so hard I was sure the whole damn estate could hear it echoing through these cursed corridors.
Two months. Two whole months I'd been scrubbing their floors and washing their dishes as "Nadia Hassan," the quiet little housekeeper who kept her head down and her mouth shut. Two months of memorizing guard rotations and security systems and waiting for this exact moment when the forbidden wing would be unguarded.
Well, mostly unguarded.
I could hear them moving somewhere in the darkness behind me - soft footfalls that were definitely not part of the regular security patrol. These were different. Deliberate. Like shadows with human shapes.
But I couldn't stop now. Not when I was this close to finding answers about what really happened to Dad thirteen years ago. Not when I could practically smell the truth waiting behind that reinforced door at the end of the hall. Whatever I had to do, needs to be done fast, in and out of the Barrons estate as soon as possible.
The motion sensor above the door frame blinked green, then red, then green again. I'd studied this pattern for weeks, timing it down to the second. Three... two... one...
I slipped through the doorway like smoke.
The private study was exactly what I'd expected from the mysterious Barron heir - all dark wood and expensive leather, ancient artifacts displayed in glass cases that probably cost more than Mom's entire apartment back in Cairo. But it was the massive desk that made my pulse spike with hope.
If Finn Barron kept secrets anywhere, it would be there.
I pulled out my phone, activating the tiny flashlight app and covering it with my fingers to dim the glow. Can't risk triggering any light sensors. Can't risk anything that might bring those silent guards running.
The desk drawers were locked, but I'd expected that. What I hadn't expected was how old-fashioned the locks were - simple tumbler mechanisms that my police academy training could handle in under thirty seconds.
Click. The first drawer slid open.
Financial documents. Business contracts. Nothing that screamed "I killed your father." I photographed everything anyway, hands shaking slightly as I worked. Every page could be important. Every signature might be evidence.
The second drawer held more of the same, but the third...
The third drawer made my blood freeze.
A manila folder labeled "MISSIRI INVESTIGATION - TERMINATED" sat on top of a stack of files, and my father's name was written in black ink across the tab in handwriting I didn't recognize.
Oh God. Oh God oh God.
I grabbed the folder with trembling fingers, my phone's light casting eerie shadows as I flipped it open. Surveillance photos spilled out - pictures of Dad taken during his final weeks in New York. Pictures of him meeting with contacts I didn't recognize. Pictures of him looking over his shoulder like he knew someone was watching.
The final photo showed him standing outside a small café, checking his watch. The timestamp read three days before his supposed "accident."
But it was the document underneath the photos that made my world tumble sideways.
A death certificate. Signed and dated. But not for a car accident like they'd told Mom.
"Cause of death: Single gunshot wound to the head. Manner of death: Homicide."
The folder slipped from my numb fingers, documents scattering across the desk like pieces of my shattered life. They'd lied about everything. Dad hadn't died in some random accident - he'd been murdered. Executed.
And these people, these Barrons with their deep secrets, terrifying-looking guards, and blood money, they knew exactly who had pulled the trigger.
I was so absorbed in the horror of what I was reading that I almost missed it.
Almost.
The soft scrape of leather on marble. Barely a whisper of sound, but in the dead silence of the study it might as well have been a gunshot.
Footsteps. In the hallway outside.
My entire body went rigid, every muscle locked in place like a deer caught in headlights. Because these weren't the heavy boots of security guards doing their rounds. These footsteps were different. Measured. Deliberate. Like a predator that had caught the scent of prey and was taking its time closing in for the kill.
Step... step... step...
Each footfall was perfectly spaced, perfectly controlled. Like whoever was out there knew exactly where they were going and was in no hurry to get there. Like they were savoring the hunt.
I've heard stories about what happens to people who cross the Barrons. Whispered rumors among the household staff about previous employees who asked too many questions or saw too much. How they just... disappeared. No resignation letters. No forwarding addresses. Just empty rooms and sealed lips and the kind of silence that screams danger.
If they catch me here, surrounded by evidence of their crimes, with their secrets scattered across the desk like accusations...
I'm dead. As good as dead.
The footsteps stopped right outside the door.
Panic flooded my system like ice water. I scrambled to gather the documents, shoving photos and papers back into the folder with shaking hands. But my fingers weren't cooperating, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion while my heart raced at double time.
Where to hide? Where the hell could someone hide in a room with floor-to-ceiling windows and nowhere to run?
The massive curtains. Heavy velvet drapes that pooled on the floor, dark enough to hide a person if they stayed perfectly still. I dove toward them, clutching the stolen folder against my chest.
But as I pressed myself against the cold window glass, something made my blood turn to ice.
Shapes. Moving in the darkness outside the study. Silent figures positioned at every exit, every window, every possible escape route. They'd been there the whole time, waiting. Watching.
I wasn't just trapped in this room. I was surrounded.
The footsteps resumed, and now I could hear something else. The soft whisper of fabric. The barely audible sound of someone breathing just on the other side of the door.
Whoever was out there, they knew I was inside. They'd probably known from the moment I'd slipped past their security. This whole thing had been a setup from the beginning.
My phone buzzed against my leg - a text message that seemed obscenely loud in the suffocating silence. I fumbled to silence it, but the damage was done. If they hadn't been certain before, they were now.
The breathing outside the door stopped.
Everything stopped.
Even the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to hold its breath, as if the entire estate was waiting for whatever came next.
I closed my eyes and pressed my face against the cold window, trying to make myself invisible. Trying to pretend I was anywhere else in the world except trapped in this nightmare with evidence of murder clutched in my hands and silent guards closing in from every direction.
But wishes don't stop doorknobs from turning.
And as the soft click of the lock disengaging echoed through the study like a death knell, I realized that Detective Noura Missiri - the woman who'd spent thirteen years planning her revenge - was about to come face to face with the very monsters she'd sworn to destroy.
The doorknob turned with the slow, deliberate precision of someone who had all the time in the world, and absolutely ready to unleash a nightmare the intruder would carry to his grave.