Chapter 9 - BLOOD ON THE LIBRARY FLOORMy father moved faster than I had ever seen him move.

He slammed me to the floor as the first shot tore through the library window and struck the wall where my head had been.

Pain exploded across my back.

I screamed.

Not from fear.

From stitches ripping open.

Agent Keene drew her weapon and fired toward the shattered window while Malcolm collapsed beside the desk, blood spreading across his white shirt.

“Shooter northwest ridge!” Keene shouted.

The library became chaos.

Glass. Alarms. Running feet. My father’s body over mine like armor. Men shouting through radios. Another shot hit the fireplace, sending stone fragments across the room.

Malcolm gasped.

The envelope lay inches from his hand.

I crawled.

My father grabbed my wrist. “Lena, no!”

I pulled free.

The old Lena might have obeyed.

That woman had died somewhere between strike one and strike two hundred.

I reached the envelope and shoved it under my body just as two guards dragged us behind the desk.

Malcolm’s eyes found mine.

“Jules,” he whispered.

Blood bubbled at his lips.

“Find the violin.”

Then he stopped breathing.

For one second, the room went silent in my mind.

Malcolm Pierce, keeper of birthdays, chessboards, funeral hands, and unforgivable lies, died on his library floor protecting a secret he should have given me years ago.

My father stared at his oldest friend’s body.

Then his grief became command.

“Lock down every exit. I want the shooter alive.”

Agent Keene was already moving. “No. Federal custody. Alive means federal custody.”

Their voices clashed above me, but I was no longer listening.

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a photograph of a teenage boy standing on a subway platform with a violin case slung over one shoulder. Dark hair. Serious eyes. Lucien’s mouth. My chin.

My son.

Behind the photo was an address written in Malcolm’s elegant script.

BROOKLYN CONSERVATORY STORAGE — UNIT 417.

Find the violin.

I folded the photograph and held it against my heart beside Aurora’s.

Daughter.

Son.

The words did not feel real yet. They felt like doors opening over cliffs.

My father knelt beside Malcolm and pressed two fingers to his neck though everyone knew it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I did not know if he meant Malcolm.

Or me.

Or the years.

Outside, one of his guards shouted. “Shooter escaped east! Black motorcycle!”

Agent Keene cursed.

My father stood, and the look on his face turned every armed man in the room silent.

“No,” I said.

He looked down at me.

“You are not going after revenge before we find my children.”

His jaw worked.

“My friend is dead.”

“My children are alive.”

That stopped him.

For the first time, I saw the choice land in him. The old world demanded blood for blood. Mine demanded answers.

Agent Keene crouched near me. “We need to get you back to medical care.”

“No.”

“Lena.”

“There’s a storage unit in Brooklyn. Vivian knows Malcolm gave us something. She’ll go there next.”

Keene looked at the envelope.

Then at me.

Then at my father.

“She’s right,” Keene said. “We move now.”

My father looked at my torn bandages.

“I almost lost you tonight.”

“You already lost me once,” I said. “When you decided grief was easier than truth.”

He absorbed that without defense.

Then he nodded.

The convoy left Pierce Manor under rain-dark skies.

Behind us, Malcolm’s house burned with police lights.

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