The Ghost Of Riverton Manor

Mason moved first.

He shoved Bella behind a heavy oak desk just as the first bullet cracked through the doorframe.

"Stay down!" he barked, pulling his sidearm from his ankle holster.

Bella's hands shook as gunfire rang through the air. A lamp exploded above her. Glass sprayed the room.

She hadn't signed up for this—not bullets, not blood, not the sharp, screaming panic in her lungs.

But her sister had died for this.

She wasn't backing down now.

Monroe's voice buzzed in her ear. "What the hell is happening up there? Bella?!"

She clicked the tiny mic under her collar. "Lang sent people. They're armed."

Mason ducked low beside her. "They'll try to separate us. If they catch you, they'll make it look like an accident. You die, and they bury the truth with you."

"How comforting."

He gave her a sharp look. "You trust me?"

" Honestly, I don't know," she said. "But I trust Emily. And she trusted you once."

That was enough—for now.

Mason cracked the door and fired two shots. One of the guards dropped with a cry. The other two ducked.

"Run," he whispered. "Fire escape. Now."

Bella didn't argue. Low and quick, she ran to the side door Mason indicated. She pushed it open, the hinges shaking, the handle wet with blood, not hers. The fire escape outside pulled down into the back lot shadows of the museum.

She didn't look back until she heard Mason grunt—then a thud.

Her heart stopped.

"Mason?"

No answer.

Gunfire again.

And then—silence.

Bella hesitated—just for a second—before making the impossible choice.

She climbed back inside.

---

The room was a disorganized . Mason slumped against the wall, holding his ribs. One of the guards was unconscious. The other was dead.

"You came back?" he coughed.

"I'm not Emily," she murmured, slinging his arm over her shoulder. "But I'm not leaving anyone behind." They stumbled through the side passage.

Museum security would be alerted soon. Cops would ask questions—none of which Mason or Bella could afford to answer.

They had minutes, maybe less.

Monroe's voice was back in her ear: "I've got your GPS. Meet me at the north garage. Two blocks east."

They didn't run—they limped, dragging each other through the night as sirens blared in the distance.

---

Inside Monroe's car, silence reigned for a few moments.

Then Monroe barked, "Are you insane? You walk into Lang's event, and now I've got two bodies to clean up and half the city looking for you."

"We didn't shoot first," Bella said.

"That won't matter when the news calls it terrorism," Monroe snapped. "Lang's got people in every newsroom in the city. He'll bury this before breakfast."

"I have the Zurich key," Bella said quietly.

That shut Monroe up.

"You're sure?" he asked.

Bella nodded. "Mason gave it to me. He had everything ready—documents, names, accounts. Emily prepared all of it."

Monroe looked at Mason in the rearview mirror. "You finally did something right."

Mason grunted. "Don't get used to it."

---

Back at Monroe's safe house, Bella cleaned the blood off her hands and stared at the key.

It was just a small metal object. But it felt like a bomb.

"What's in the box?" she asked Mason later that night, as he sat on the edge of the couch, ribs taped, breathing slow.

"Evidence," he said. "Not just about Lang. About the entire program. The trials. The bribes. Emily copied it all—she was smart like that. She planned for the worst."

Bella looked down. "She didn't plan to die."

"No," Mason said quietly. "That was my mistake."

---

That night, Bella couldn't sleep.

She walked to the mirror to get a look at herself.

The girl in the mirror no longer looked like someone searching for answers.

She looked like someone preparing for war.