Erica Sinclair - Evictions -- M/F

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog , dear @Caesar73 It's good to have you back and I'm glad you like the story so far, but who knows, are theygetting Isabelle back? Is she even at 48 Meadow Lane?
Let's find out.

[Jenny_S]

Erica’s heart leaps into her throat when a soft tap sounds against the passenger window, and she shrieks, her hands jerking on the steering wheel. She turns to find John Dance standing there like a ghost, a half-smirk on his face. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “Didn’t mean to spook you”, and then he opens the door and slides into the shotgun seat.

“Relax, Erica.” he says, his voice a low murmur as he settles in, glancing around the parking lot before his sharp eyes return to her. “48 Meadow Lane looks clear from the outside. No sign of the kidnappers or anyone else hanging around.”

“Okay.” Erica breathes, trying to steady herself. She exhales through pursed lips and turns the ignition, the Volvo’s engine purring to life. “Let’s go get her.”

They pull out of the Seven-Eleven and onto Meadow Lane, the car rolling slowly down the cracked, overgrown road. The surrounding houses are clearly abandoned, their windows dark and empty. There’s a haunting stillness about the area - no cars, no pedestrians, not even the stray dogs or cats that usually roam the alleys of run-down neighborhoods. It’s as if everyone and everything has abandoned this place.

“End of the street and on the right.” Dance mutters, pointing ahead with a slight nod. “That’s our target.”

Erica’s gaze locks on the building at the dead-end of Meadow Lane. 48 Meadow Lane is just as Miranda had described: a sagging, boarded-up one-story house with chipped paint and ivy strangling its façade. The front door is covered with plywood, nailed tightly shut. Erica parks the car a few houses away, out of direct sight.

“Ready?” she whispers.

Dance nods, checking his pistol. “Stay close behind me.”

They exit the car quietly and head around the side of the property, sticking to the shadows where the overgrown brush provides some cover. Their shoes crunch softly against the broken gravel as they approach what was once a small, footworn path leading to a dilapidated clapboard garage. They round the corner to the back of the house and find a warped door hanging off its frame, loosely held by a rusted lock that someone has broken open recently.

“This is it.” Dance murmurs, glancing back at Erica, who nods grimly. He draws his gun, the faint click almost thunderous in the silence, and pushes the door open slowly, his posture tense and alert. Entering first, he sweeps the room from left to right, checking each corner and doorway with practiced precision.

Erica steps in behind him, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she surveys the interior. The place is a mess of old newspapers, discarded furniture, and dust so thick it’s hard to breathe. Empty beer cans litter the floor, and cobwebs hang from the ceiling like tattered drapes. But there’s no sign of anyone.

“Clear.” Dance whispers after making a quick circuit through the connected rooms.

They pause in the small kitchen area, the stale air heavy around them. The place is empty. No kidnappers, no sign of struggle - just the lingering silence and the distant sound of their own breathing.

“Is there a basement?” Erica’s voice is barely audible, her eyes darting around in confusion.

“Over there!” Dance says shortly, his gaze fixed on a narrow door at the end of the hall. He motions for Erica to stay behind him as he carefully approaches it. There’s no lock on the door, no obvious indication of what lies beyond. Dance grips the handle and opens it cautiously, revealing a steep wooden staircase that descends into darkness.

He takes out his flashlight and shines it down into the black void. “Stay close.”





The old wooden stairs creak under their weight with each step, sending ominous echoes through the dark basement. Erica grips the railing tightly, the rough, splintered wood digging into her palm. The air grows colder as they descend, filled with the musty scent of mildew and damp earth.

As they reach the bottom, a soft, muffled sound makes Erica stop in her tracks.

A voice. Strained and desperate, barely audible beneath something - a gag, perhaps.

“Did you hear that?” she whispers, her heart racing in her chest.

Dance gives a quick nod, his face tense as he sweeps his flashlight around the room, the narrow beam cutting through the darkness. The basement is small, cluttered with forgotten boxes, rusted shelves, and old tools that haven’t seen use in years. The air feels oppressive, weighed down by years of neglect.

Then, the beam hits something - an old curtain hanging limply in the corner, dividing the cellar into two spaces.

“There.” Dance mutters, the beam of his flashlight drawing circles on the rough material.
Without hesitating, Erica rushes forward and grabs the fabric, tearing it down in one swift motion. Behind the curtain, her breath catches.

The rusty bed is just as it appeared in the ransom photo, its filthy mattress stained with God-knows-what. On it, a young woman lies stretched out, shivering, dressed only in her underwear. Her wrists and ankles are bound to the bedposts with handcuffs, her body trembling from the cold air that clings to the damp, musty room. A black sleeping mask covers her eyes, and a gag muffles her desperate attempts to speak.

Erica’s heart clenches at the sight of her: Isabelle Prescott.

She drops to her knees beside the bed, her movements controlled but hurried, her voice soft and reassuring. “Isabelle, it’s okay. I’m Erica Sinclair.” she says gently, touching Isabelle’s arm with the lightest of pressures. “Your father sent me to take you home. Don’t be afraid. I’m going to take the blindfold and gag off now, okay?”

Isabelle turns her head slightly toward Erica’s voice, still struggling, the sounds of her muffled cries breaking through the gag.

Dance, already by her side, produces a universal handcuff key from his pocket, his face grim as he begins working to unlock the restraints.

Erica leans closer, carefully pulling the blindfold from Isabelle’s eyes. The flashlight’s beam stays just out of her line of sight, but her eyes dart, wide and frantic, between Erica and Dance as the reality of the situation sets in.

“This is Mr. Dance.” Erica says softly. “He’s here to help. He’s going to unlock the handcuffs now.”

Isabelle nods frantically, her breath coming in short gasps, her entire body trembling.

As Dance quietly unlocks the cuffs, his hands steady despite the tension, Erica works on removing the gag. She carefully unties the cloth holding it in place, then gently helps Isabelle spit out the rag. The young woman coughs and gasps as she regains the use of her mouth, her lips chapped and dry, but her eyes - her wide, frantic eyes - speak of pure terror.

Erica looks at her closely, noting the absence of marks on Isabelle’s wrists where the cuffs have been, and the lack of any sign of the sweat, dirt, or bodily odors she might have expected after days of captivity. There is no stench of urine in the room, no bucket of waste nearby. It’s odd, but Erica keeps these thoughts to herself, her priority now to comfort the traumatized woman.

As soon as Dance unlatches the last cuff, Isabelle collapses into Erica’s arms, shaking violently, her breathing rapid and shallow.

“It’s okay.” Erica whispers, wrapping her arms around Isabelle protectively, her voice steady and soothing. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

“I’ll get a blanket.” Dance says, leaving his flashlight behind to keep the space lit. He hurries up the stairs, his footsteps fading as he leaves them momentarily alone.

Erica holds Isabelle tightly, feeling the raw tremble of the young woman’s body. She rocks her gently, trying to create a small island of warmth and security in this cold, grim place. She doesn’t mention the oddities - there will be time for that later. For now, Isabelle needs to feel safe.


“Thank you.” she rasps, her voice cracking with emotion.

Erica cradles Isabelle in her arms, whispering soft reassurances as the young woman trembles uncontrollably.
Isabelle clings to her, her breathing erratic, face pressed into Erica's shoulder. As Erica holds her close, trying to offer whatever warmth and comfort she can, her mind starts picking up on small, unsettling details.

She gently rubs Isabelle's wrists, where the handcuffs had been fastened just moments before. But the skin there is smooth - too smooth. There are no bruises, no red marks, no abrasions. For someone supposedly bound for days, Isabelle’s skin shows no signs of the prolonged friction and pressure handcuffs should leave behind.

Her gaze shifts to Isabelle’s face. The gag is gone, but there are no raw edges around her mouth, no welts or cuts that would have formed from being gagged for an extended period of time. And as Erica strokes her hair, a strand slipping between her fingers, she realizes something else - Isabelle feels clean. Remarkably so. No oily grime from days without proper hygiene, no telltale sweat or dirt caked into her skin or hair.

She inhales, expecting the acrid scent of fear and captivity, an odor she clearly remembers from her first adventure at Simulated Activities. Instead, there’s the faint, almost pleasant hint of soap, as though Isabelle had showered recently. No foul odor of days spent tied up in a dingy basement. There’s no bucket in sight, no sign that she’s been left to endure her confinement without even basic amenities.

Erica’s instincts stir - something is off. But she doesn’t voice her suspicions, not now. Isabelle is fragile, trembling in her arms, and this moment isn’t the time for questioning a potentially traumatized woman. This can wait until later. Right now, her priority is to get Isabelle to safety, back to her father. There will be time to ask the hard questions soon enough.

John Dance reappears, his heavy footsteps returning down the stairs, a thick, warm blanket in his arms. His face is hard-set, focused on the task, maybe not yet noticing what Erica has. He drapes the blanket over Isabelle’s shoulders, the weight of it bringing a small measure of comfort to the shivering young woman.

Erica gently wraps the blanket more securely around Isabelle’s frame, tucking the edges in and pulling her close again. “There, that’s better. We’re going to get you home now, Isabelle. You’re safe.”

Isabelle buries herself deeper into Erica’s embrace, still shaking, but the warmth of the blanket and Erica’s steady presence begin to calm her slightly.

“Thank you.” Isabelle whispers again, her voice hoarse, barely audible.

“Don’t worry.” Erica murmurs softly, stroking her hair again, her hand lingering for just a moment on the clean strands. “Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll take you home now.”

Dance picks up his flashlight again, routinely sweeping the room one last time for any clues. As he signals for them to head upstairs, Erica holds Isabelle tight, leading her gently, with care.

Her mind is already turning over the strange details, cataloging everything she noticed - but for now, she stays silent. The truth, whatever it may be, can wait until they are back in Manhattan.



Erica navigates the badly patched roads of Haverstraw, the soft hum of the car’s engine the only sound breaking the silence. Beside her, Isabelle sits in the passenger seat, wrapped tightly in the blanket John Dance had brought clutching a bottle of sparkling water Erica gave her. The young woman stares out the window, her gaze distant, lost in the blur of passing streetlights. The hour-long drive back to Manhattan stretches before them, and though Erica gives Isabelle her space, she can’t help but think about the list of questions forming in her mind.

Isabelle’s sudden stifled sobs cut through the quiet. Erica spares her a glance, her expression remaining composed but concerned. She waits, letting the woman speak at her own pace.

“They said… they said they would kill me.” Isabelle finally murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words come out shaky, like they’ve been stuck in her throat for days.

Erica’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. She wants to ask more but knows this isn’t the moment for interrogation. “You’re safe now.” she says softly, her voice calm and reassuring.

A heavy silence settles again. Isabelle swallows hard, and adds in a hollow tone, “I thought I’d never see my dad again...”

Erica stays quiet, but her mind is racing, piecing together the puzzle of this strange kidnapping. The entire scene back at 48 Meadow Lane had felt...off. Isabelle had been bound, but the lack of bruising, the cleanliness, the absence of the stench of captivity - it all raises too many red flags. If she had been given the opportunity to shower, that certainly hadn’t happened in that filthy basement. Yet, Isabelle’s hair had been clean, her body absent of the grime she should have accumulated over days.

She files the questions away, keeping her focus on getting Isabelle home safely.

Pulling out her phone, Erica dials Jonathan Prescott’s number. He answers on the second ring, his voice sharp with anxiety. “Ms. Sinclair? Is she…?”

“She’s safe.” Erica cuts in gently. “I’m bringing her back to Manhattan now.”

A long exhale of relief escapes from Prescott. “Thank God. I’ll have my doctor ready to meet her when you arrive.”

Hearing this, Isabelle shakes her head firmly, her eyes wide in silent protest. Erica glances at her, acknowledging the unspoken plea.

“She’s fine, Mr. Prescott.” Erica says, her tone softening. “A bit shaken, but physically, she’s okay. Let’s just get her home and settled. I’ll stay with her for now.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, but Prescott finally agrees. “All right. Just...please bring her home safely.”

“I will. We’re on our way.”

As the call ends, Erica slides the phone back into the console, her mind returning to the list of questions. She would need to know every detail: from the moment Isabelle left that party in Alpine, New Jersey, to how she ended up in the hands of the kidnappers, to what they did - or didn’t - do to her while she was held captive. Every aspect of her story would need to be scrutinized, including whether she had truly been given a chance to clean up. Something wasn’t right, and Erica couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this story than Isabelle - or anyone else - was letting on.

For now, though, she lets Isabelle have her silence. The young woman’s quiet, broken sobs continue intermittently, her body curled tightly in the passenger seat, a mixture of fear and exhaustion in her posture. Erica glances at her one more time, then focuses on the road ahead. Soon, they’ll be back in Manhattan, and that’s when the real work would begin.






As Erica drives the black Volvo down the ramp to the underground parking, she immediately notices something strange: the usual security guards are nowhere to be seen. Instead, there is only Miranda Lang, waiting anxiously by the entrance. Miranda’s eyes widen the moment the car pulls in. She practically launches herself towards the passenger side as soon as Erica cuts off the engine.

The door swings open, and Miranda pulls Isabelle Prescott into a tight embrace, her arms shaking slightly with emotion.

“Oh my God, Issy.” Miranda breathes, her voice filled with relief as she clutches her friend. Isabelle, pale and still shivering slightly, leans into the embrace, but her exhaustion is evident in the droop of her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes.

Erica watches for a moment, then walks around the car. Her movements are calm and deliberate as she helps Isabelle ease out of the passenger seat, her hand resting gently on the young woman’s elbow for support.

“Here, put these on.” Miranda says, still smiling through her tears as she kneels down and slides a pair of soft, plush slippers onto Isabelle’s cold feet. “You’ll feel better.”

With Isabelle secured between them, the trio makes their way to the elevator. It whirs softly as it begins its smooth ascent, not just to the Executive floor of Prescott Holdings, but all the way up to the top floor - the exclusive, glass-domed penthouse of Jonathan Prescott himself.

When the elevator doors slide open, they step out into a breathtaking space. The penthouse is a marvel of modern architecture, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that curve up into a dome, offering a panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline. In the center of the room, an indoor garden flourishes, filled with lush, tropical plants that create a peaceful contrast to the bustling city below. There’s a lap pool to the right, its surface reflecting the soft glow of the ambient lighting. The penthouse is elegant but feels strangely cold, more like a showpiece than a home. The luxury is undeniable, but so is the emptiness beneath it.

Jonathan Prescott is already waiting for them. His tall, imposing figure softens at the sight of his daughter. He strides forward and wraps Isabelle in a tight embrace, his hand running through her hair as if needing to reassure himself that she is truly there.

"Thank God." he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.
Isabelle holds on to her father, but her exhaustion is palpable. Her eyes, still hollow from the ordeal, flicker over to Erica.

As Jonathan Prescott finally pulls back, his eyes glisten as he turns to Erica. "Thank you. Truly. I don’t know how to express…"

Erica waves off the rest of the sentiment with a slight shake of her head, professional and measured. “I’m just glad she’s back safe.”

Prescott’s face tightens as he nods, and Erica takes the opportunity to turn to Isabelle. “I’ll be back tomorrow, sometime late morning, to start looking into the details of what happened. I mean, if you’re up for it, Isabelle. I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

Isabelle’s tired eyes meet Erica’s, and she nods, though it’s clear her strength is wearing thin. “I’ll be ready.” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Erica gives her a warm, reassuring smile. “You’ve been through a lot. Maybe take a bath, get some rest.” She glances at Jonathan, who also seems to agree, his gaze fixed on his daughter with deep concern.

“Thank you, Ms. Sinclair.” Isabelle says softly as Erica turns to leave.

Erica nods, saying her goodbyes before stepping back into the elevator. As the doors close and she begins her descent, her mind is already racing, sorting through the inconsistencies, the oddities that had been gnawing at her. She pulls out her phone and dials John Dance.

“John, I just dropped Isabelle off. What do you think about 48 Meadow Lane?” she asks, getting straight to the point.

“I was going to call you.” Dance says, his tone low and serious. “A few things felt… off. We should go over them.”

Erica’s brow furrows as she listens to the list of things John Dance rattles down, her mind already constructing a plan for the next steps. "Agreed. I’ll meet with the girl tomorrow. We’ll figure this out.”






After ending the call, Erica drives back to her own apartment on West 72nd Street, the Upper West Side, the weight of the day finally catching up to her. The elevator ride up feels longer than usual, and as soon as she steps into her home, the soft padding of tiny paws on the hardwood floor greets her.

The two kittens, her recent and most playful companions, come trotting up from the living room, their little faces expectant and welcoming. Erica smiles, kneeling down to greet them, happy for the small warmth they bring.

The black one with the white tuft on his chest nuzzles his head into her hand, purring softly. Erica strokes his fur, biting her lip thoughtfully. “I think I’ll call you Spot.” she murmurs with a soft chuckle, finally settling on a name. The other kitten, the grey tiger-striped one, bats playfully at her sleeve. “And you’ll be Tiger. It suits you.”

Still in her coat, with her handbag slung over her shoulder, she heads into the living room, the kittens following closely at her heels. She finds their food bowl empty and, without hesitation, opens a packet of kitten food, squeezing it into their dish. Spot and Tiger immediately dig in, their tiny bodies practically vibrating with excitement.

Erica watches them for a moment, her mind briefly distracted by the simple joy of their presence. But even as she smiles at their enthusiasm, the questions about Isabelle’s supposed captivity start to creep back into her thoughts. The absence of marks on Isabelle’s body, the cleanliness of her skin and hair - it doesn’t add up. But tonight, she lets the questions rest. Tomorrow can bring the answers.

For now, all she can do is watch the kittens eat and enjoy the rare moment of peace in her otherwise hectic world.


Erica sinks into the deep comfort of her black leather couch, the cool, smooth surface beneath her almost grounding her as she lets out a long breath. The living room is dimly lit, with soft light coming from a single floor lamp in the corner, casting long shadows over the polished hardwood floor. Her notepad lies on her lap, its blank pages waiting, demanding her attention. She can’t just ignore the gnawing feeling at the back of her mind - the inconsistencies she noticed when they found Isabelle Prescott.

With a sigh, Erica flips the notepad open and begins jotting down everything she observed earlier. Her pen glides across the page, and with each line, she sketches out the strange details that have been swirling in her mind. :

She pauses, tapping the pen lightly against her lips. The situation isn’t sitting right. Isabelle had looked like a picture-perfect victim on the surface, but the evidence - what little of it there was - told a different story.

Erica writes out a few bullet points for the questions she’ll need to ask Isabelle tomorrow.

Her pen stops, and she leans back into the couch, letting her head fall against the cushion as she stares up at the ceiling, her thoughts drifting into the “what-ifs.”

What if Isabelle was forced to play the role of the kidnapped victim? Erica frowns, considering this possibility. If so, by whom? Someone in her father’s world? A business rival? But then there’s another possibility gnawing at her: What if Isabelle wanted the ransom for herself?

Erica shifts on the couch. Isabelle didn’t strike her as ruthless or conniving. She knows very little about her, but there had been a vulnerability in the young woman’s eyes. Still, things don’t add up. She isn’t sure what to make of it all yet.

With a deep sigh, Erica finally decides to put the case out of her mind for the night. She sets the notepad aside on the coffee table, stands up, and heads to her bedroom, where she changes into a comfortable grey sweatsuit. The soft fabric hugs her as she pulls her hair back into a loose ponytail, feeling the weight of the day slowly slip away.

Returning to the living room, she sits down cross-legged on the hardwood floor. The cool wood beneath her feels good, grounding. Her two kittens, Spot and Tiger, scamper over from the corner, their little paws making the faintest of sounds as they approach her.

Erica smiles as she watches them play, their tiny bodies full of energy as they chase an invisible target across the floor. It doesn’t take long before they start climbing all over her, their tiny claws pricking at her sweatshirt, their soft tongues licking at her fingers. Spot nudges her hand with his tiny nose, while Tiger playfully bats at the hem of her sleeve.

Erica lets out a soft laugh, a rare sound these days, and strokes the little furballs gently. She never thought something as simple as watching kittens could bring her so much peace. “Thanks, Claire.” she mutters to herself, remembering how her assistant had nudged her toward adopting the kittens in the first place. She feels a small surge of happiness blossom inside her, warming her heart in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time.

She lies back on the floor, resting her head on the cool wood as the kittens continue to climb over her, tumbling around on her chest and arms. The gentle weight of their tiny bodies and their innocent playfulness fills her with a quiet joy. Spot curls up against her neck, purring softly, while Tiger bats at a strand of her hair that has fallen loose.

Erica pulls out her phone, still smiling, and begins scrolling through a list of local veterinarians. The kittens need to be checked out, the girl at the pet store had said, and she knows she’s clueless about how to care for them properly. She quickly finds a nearby pet clinic and dials the number, the phone pressed to her ear as Spot wriggles in her lap.

“Hello, Green Park Veterinary Clinic, how can I help you?” the receptionist says, her voice cheerful.

“Hi, I’d like to make an appointment for two kittens.” Erica says, glancing down at the little critters, now tumbling over each other in a playful frenzy. “Tomorrow morning, if possible.”

The receptionist quickly checks the schedule. “We can do 8:30 AM. Would that work for you?”

“Perfect.” Erica replies, watching as Spot tries to nibble on her sleeve. “Two kittens, both male, I think….”

“And their age?”

“Kittens…very young.” Erica laughs softly. “I actually just got them yesterday, and, uh, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

The receptionist chuckles warmly. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you get started. See you tomorrow at 8:30.”

“Thanks.” Erica says, ending the call and setting her phone aside. She strokes the kittens again, watching as they settle down beside her, their tiny purring filling the quiet space.

As Erica leans back and closes her eyes for a moment, she realizes she didn’t mind admitting to the receptionist how clueless she is about Spot and Tiger. Somehow, these two little creatures have already worked their way into her heart, making her feel something she hadn’t felt in a while - a sense of lightness, of joy.

For tonight, the mysteries can wait. She watches the kittens as they curl up beside her, and for a moment, she allows herself to simply enjoy this newfound warmth in her life.

[LunaDog]

Intriguing. Like the greatest writers do, you leave more questions than answers. And, although there does seem to me to be one obvious conclusion, often in the end things don't turn out that way. Let's see in just which direction you decide to take this, i'm sure that you have some more surprises for us all!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog we will see. Do we have motive, opportunity and intent?
Let's continue, because there's important flashback coming up as well as more kitten cuteness and the visit at the Prescotts' penthouse.

[Jenny_S]

As Erica returns from her morning run, her breath slows to a steady rhythm, the chill of the early morning air still clinging to her skin. The city is stirring awake, but her apartment remains a quiet sanctuary, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the window casting a gentle light across the room. She feels refreshed, her body invigorated by the exercise, yet her mind buzzes with the anticipation of what lies ahead.

She moves through the familiar motions of her morning routine, finding comfort in the rhythm of small, simple tasks. Her first stop is the kittens’ bowls. She cleans the tiny food dishes in the kitchen sink, wiping them with paper towels before filling them with fresh food and water. As she glances over to their small bed tucked in the corner of her living room by one of the heating grids, she notices both kittens still fast asleep, curled into each other, their tiny bodies rising and falling with soft breaths.

"Cuteness overload." Erica thinks to herself, a small smile touching her lips.

But the quiet peace of her morning belies the weight hanging over her. Today is different. Today, she will see Isabelle Prescott and today, she will hear more about the young woman's alleged kidnapping - a story that, with every new piece of information, begins to feel more like a carefully crafted illusion.

"Alleged..." she murmurs under her breath as she rinses her hands at the sink. She wipes them dry and leans against the counter for a moment, her mind churning. "I’m already doubting her story."

Shaking off the thought for now, Erica heads to the shower. The warm water cascades over her, washing away the residue of sweat and tension from her run. But the knot in her stomach remains, the sense that the day ahead will be pivotal. As she steps out and towel-dries her hair, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her expression more serious than usual.

After applying light makeup and smoothing her damp hair, still naked, she walks into her bedroom, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. She steps into her walk-in closet, selecting a set of underwear and running her fingers along the tailored blouses and jackets hanging neatly in a row. Today calls for something sharp, something that exudes confidence and precision. Her fingers land on a crisp white blouse and a tailored pair of pants, and she slips them on before adding a matching suit jacket.



Erica catches her reflection in the mirror as she instinctively slides her gold university class ring onto her finger without a second thought. But then, her eyes fall on the Rolex dive watch resting on her dresser.

Her hand pauses over the watch, a wave of emotion pulling her into a memory. It’s distant, yet vivid - sharp enough to make her heart catch.

It’s her graduation day from Harvard Law. She can still feel the soft weight of her gown, the cap tucked under her arm as she stands in her father’s study. The rich scent of leather-bound books and polished wood fills the room. Her father, always composed, watches her with a pride that goes beyond words.

"Knowing the law is one thing." his voice had been steady, full of the gravity that always made her listen. "But it takes a strong moral compass to use it."

She remembers him crossing the room, going to the large rolltop desk where he kept only the most important things. He returned with a green box, its gold crown emblem catching the light as he handed it to her.

"I have something for you."

When she opened the box, her breath had caught. Nestled inside was the gleaming Rolex, its weight solid and reassuring. But it wasn’t just the watch that had taken her breath away - it was the engraving on the back. Simple words, etched into the steel, that felt like a commandment: “Stand for something or fall for anything”

“These words,” her father had said, his tone soft but unwavering, “are more than just a motto. They’re an oath - a commitment to live by your principles, no matter the cost.”

In that moment, Erica had promised him - promised herself - that she would live by that creed. That she would never lose sight of her moral compass, no matter how complex the law or the world became.

Back in the present, she snaps the clasp of the Rolex around her wrist, the cool metal grounding her. The weight of it sends a familiar shiver through her, pulling her back into focus. The memory lingers, a steady presence behind her, as she gazes at the watch - a symbol of everything her father had instilled in her.

“Stand for something or fall for anything.”

The words echo in her mind, settling over her like armor. With renewed purpose, she straightens her posture and finishes getting ready. Today won’t be easy - she knows that – but Erica knows who she is and what she stands for.

She takes one last look in the mirror, catching the reflection of determination in her eyes. Whatever challenges await, she’s ready.





The determination clear in her eyes, Erica heads into the kitchen where she reaches for the coffee pad machine, setting it to brew while preparing herself a bowl of oatmeal. The rich aroma of coffee fills the air as she stirs her breakfast, adding a thin drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon before grabbing her mug and heading toward the living room.

Peeking in, she finds Spot and Tiger, the two kittens, eagerly feasting on the food she had put out for them earlier. The sight of their tiny paws gripping the edges of the bowl as they devour their meal brings a soft chuckle to her lips. Clutching her mug of coffee, Erica leans against the doorway, watching the two critters with amusement. Their energy is infectious, and it amazes her how quickly they empty their food bowl with surprising enthusiasm.

"Little furballs." she murmurs with a smile, sipping her coffee as she enjoys the quiet moment.

Her first appointment today isn’t with Isabelle Prescott, as she had been preparing herself for, but with a veterinarian to get the kittens checked out. She glances at the clock - quarter to eight. It’s time.

Placing her now-empty mug in the sink, she grabs her handbag and moves toward the kittens, who are lazily grooming themselves after their breakfast. She scoops them up gently, their tiny bodies warm and soft against her, and places them inside her handbag, making a mental note that she’ll need to buy a proper transport case for them on the way back.




The ride to the veterinarian’s office is quick, the streets still quiet with the early morning traffic just beginning to build. When she arrives, the receptionist at the pet clinic greets her with a warm smile, taking down her information as well as the kittens'.

“Spot and Tiger, right?” the receptionist asks, tapping the keys to enter the data.

Erica nods with a smile, giving a quick look at the two curious faces poking out of her handbag. “That’s right.”

After a few moments, the receptionist shows Erica into the examination room where Dr Kline, the veterinarian, a man about her age with an easy smile, waits. He looks up as Erica walks in, eyes brightening at the sight of the kittens.

“Well, look at these two.” he says warmly. “Let’s see how they’re doing.”

Erica places her handbag on the stainless-steel examination table, gently urging the kittens to climb out. Spot jumps out eagerly, while Tiger follows more cautiously, their tiny paws tapping softly on the surface.

Kline takes his time, thoroughly checking each kitten. He runs a comb through their fur, inspecting for fleas, but finds none. He feels for any suspicious lumps, looks into their eyes, ears, and mouths with practiced precision, listening to their breathing through a stethoscope, taking their temperatures and weighing them on a small scale. The kittens remain surprisingly calm, perhaps soothed by the vet’s gentle touch and soft-spoken nature.

“Gauging by their size and weight, they’re about eight weeks old.” he estimates, his hands moving carefully as he examines them. “They’re in great shape for being strays.”

Erica watches closely, feeling a mix of relief and affection for her new companions. “Somebody just left them at our doorstep.” she says, her voice carrying a hint of disbelief.

The vet nods, his expression softening. “It happens more often than you’d think. But it looks like they’ve ended up in good hands.”

He prepares two small syringes, giving both Spot and Tiger a quick injection of vitamins. The kittens barely flinch, too curious about their new surroundings to notice the pinch.

“You’re all set.” the vet says with a reassuring smile, wiping his hands and straightening up. “They’re in great health. You’ll have a lot of fun with these two. Call us if there’s anything.”

Erica feels a sense of relief wash over her. She smiles, scooping the kittens back into her handbag, where they curl up comfortably, already used to their little adventures.

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll make sure they’re well looked after.”

As she heads out of the clinic, Erica feels the warmth of satisfaction - both from the vet’s positive report and from the growing attachment she feels toward the kittens. She mentally ticks off the next task on her agenda: a quick stop at the pet store for a proper transport case.






At the pet store the same young shop attendant from the other evening spots her as she enters, and her face lights up with excitement when she notices two little heads peeking out from Erica’s handbag.

“Oh my gosh, you brought them!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together in delight.

“They just had their first check-up at the Green Park Pet Clinic.” Erica says with a small smile, pulling the handbag closer to show off Spot and Tiger. “I think we need a proper transport case for them.”

The young woman nods enthusiastically and guides Erica to the far corner of the store where a full rack displays a wide array of pet carriers. Erica feels her eyebrows raise at the sheer variety - soft-sided, hard-sided, backpack style, different shapes, sizes, colors. It's a bit overwhelming.

“I didn’t realize there were so many options.” Erica says, glancing over the selection.

The attendant laughs softly. “Yeah, you’d be surprised. Here, let me show you a sturdy one that’s easy to clean and lasts a while.”

She picks out a sleek, solid carrier with a durable plastic frame and a hinged metal grid for a door, setting it on the floor in front of Erica.

“This one’s really popular.” the girl explains. “Decently sized for both of them, the mat inside is washable, and the door locks securely but isn’t too fiddly to open.”

Erica kneels down and gently places the open carrier on the floor. “Alright, let’s see what you think.” she says, looking at the kittens.

Spot and Tiger, ever curious, climb out of her handbag and approach the new box with inquisitive sniffs and tentative steps. Within moments, they hop inside and circle around before settling comfortably in the soft mat at the bottom. They make themselves right at home.

“Looks like they approve.” the attendant smiles, watching them with obvious affection.

Erica nods and clicks the door shut. “Perfect.” She stands up, giving the young woman a small, appreciative smile. “I’ll take it.”

Following her to the register, Erica swipes her card, her eyes flicking to the register screen. $59.99. For a plastic box. She gives a subtle raise of her brow but then looks at the kittens, now cozily tucked in and dozing off. Totally worth it.

Back in the car, Spot and Tiger are already fast asleep in their new carrier, tired from their morning adventure. Erica drives home, pulling into the parking garage, and carefully carries the sleeping kittens up to her apartment. Once inside, she places the transport case gently on the floor and opens the door, leaving it ajar so they can wander out whenever they wake up. Quietly, she fills their bowls with fresh kitten food and water and scoops the clumps out the litter box.
By now these little tasks seem to become a routine for her.

Erica straightens up, glancing down at the sleeping kittens one more time. Their tiny chests rise and fall peacefully inside the carrier.

With a sigh, she moves to the coffee table and flips through her notes in preparation for the upcoming meeting with Isabelle Prescott. She feels the weight of her questions, the doubts already swirling in her mind.

After a quick final check of her things, Erica steps out of her apartment, the click of the door behind her echoing in the stillness. The day ahead feels heavy with uncertainty, but she’s ready.





When Erica arrives at the towering glass and steel building on West 75th Street, the security guards recognize her instantly. One of them, holding a clipboard, greets her with a polite nod as he hands over a visitor's badge and checks her name on his list of approved visitors.

"Ms. Prescott is expecting you." he says, his tone courteous but professional. He motions toward the elevators and enters the access code for the penthouse level, the very top of the building. "Have a great day, Ma'am."

Erica thanks him and steps into the elevator, watching as the doors close with a soft hum. She ascends swiftly, the city shrinking beneath her as she nears the top floor, where the penthouse of Jonathan Prescott - marked by its iconic glass dome - awaits.

The doors glide open, and Erica steps into a space that feels worlds away from the busy streets below. The lush tropical garden that fills the heart of the penthouse is breathtaking, with vibrant greenery, exotic plants, and even the soft murmur of a waterfall creating a serene atmosphere.

Isabelle Prescott emerges from the thicket of plants, dressed with effortless elegance. Her light makeup highlights her sharp features, and she looks well-rested, a stark contrast to the disheveled image of the girl in the ransom photo. Isabelle smiles, extending a hand as she approaches.

“Ms. Sinclair,” she says warmly, “thank you so much for your efforts. My father told me how relentless you were in pursuing every angle of my kidnapping. I’m truly grateful.”

Erica accepts Isabelle’s handshake, following her through the tropical paradise toward a cozy sitting area. Isabelle’s tone is gracious, but Erica senses a practiced polish in her demeanor – a little too polished. They settle onto the comfortable chairs as the sound of the waterfall trickles softly in the background.

“Your kidnappers were very thorough in covering their tracks.” Erica begins, a hint of frustration in her voice. “So we hope that you, Miss Prescott, might be able to give us some clues. With the ransom gone, you’re the only person who could help us figure out who’s responsible for what you had to endure.”

Erica chooses her words carefully, mindful of the delicate situation. Isabelle nods, pouring coffee into elegant porcelain cups from a silver tray.

“Of course.” Isabelle replies, her voice soft but composed. She hands Erica a cup, and they both take a moment to sip the hot brew.

Erica glances around at the lush greenery, feeling the high level of oxygen invigorate her senses. “This place is incredible.” she says, her tone genuine. “It’s like a little paradise up here.”

Isabelle smiles, but there’s a faint hint of detachment in her expression. “It is. But… it can feel a bit lonely sometimes. My father and I are both so busy, and with our schedules, the penthouse is empty most of the time.”

Erica takes mental note of that. Isabelle’s comment could be innocent, but it hints at something deeper - perhaps a clue into the young woman’s state of mind or her lifestyle. “You’re involved in the company, right?” Erica asks, steering the conversation gently. “What’s your role?”

Isabelle gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. “A glorified intern, really. I do get to see a lot though. My father’s intent is clear - he wants me to take over one day. I am involved in a lot of things, but for now, I’m still learning the ropes.”

Erica jots down notes as Isabelle speaks. She’s careful to listen for anything that might offer insight into the kidnapping. The surroundings - this opulent, secure penthouse - seem almost too perfect, too polished for someone who’d just been through a harrowing ordeal. Erica’s instincts urge her to dig deeper.

“It wouldn’t be uncommon for someone in your position - someone as wealthy and influential as you or your father - to attract unwanted attention.” Erica says carefully. “Maybe you have enemies. Ones you might not even know about.”

Isabelle’s expression remains calm, but there’s a brief flicker of something - uncertainty, perhaps - before she nods. “I can’t think of anyone I’d regard as an enemy.” she says softly. “I’ve always tried to avoid conflict, and as far as I know, no one has ever threatened me directly.”

Erica notes this down, her mind already working through the possible leads or blind spots in Isabelle’s awareness. But for now, she lets it slide, pressing on with more direct questions.

“I understand that on the evening of your kidnapping, you attended a party in New Jersey.” Erica says, her voice gentle yet probing. “Could you walk me through what happened that night? Who did you speak with before you left? And when you did leave, did you notice anything unusual? Maybe someone following you?”

Isabelle looks thoughtful for a moment, her eyes flickering briefly as she recalls the details of that night.

“I was at a party, yes. It was a charity event.” she begins, her tone calm and measured. “I spoke with a few people, mostly my father’s business associates. It was a fairly standard event, nothing out of the ordinary.”

She pauses, sipping her coffee as if to steady herself. Erica leans in slightly, encouraging her to continue.

“I left around 10 p.m. or so. Took the usual route home - I didn’t notice anything off at first.”

Erica nods, her pen ready.

“Then, a couple of miles in,” Isabelle continues, her voice more focused now, “there was this car by the side of the road - a sedan. Could’ve been black, maybe blue, or even grey… I’m not sure. There was a woman standing outside, by the trunk, waving her arms like she needed help.”

Erica’s pen pauses mid-note, her instincts on high alert. “So, you pulled over?”

Isabelle nods. “Yes. I pulled over behind the car to see what was going on. It looked like an emergency, so I didn’t really think twice about it.”

“What happened when you got out of the car?” Erica asks, her tone encouraging but sharp with the need for details.

“I walked over to the sedan.” Isabelle continues, her brow furrowed slightly as if she relives the moment. “But before I could ask what was wrong, someone - someone who had been hiding behind the car - grabbed me. I think it was a man, though I didn’t see much. It happened fast.”

Erica’s gaze sharpens. “What did he do?”

“He pressed a cloth over my face.” Isabelle says, her voice quieter now. “It smelled sweet, like chemicals… the next thing I remember is waking up in that basement. Handcuffed to the bed frame, gagged, and blindfolded.”

Erica writes quickly, the pieces starting to come together in her mind. The sweet-smelling cloth - chloroform, most likely - was the key to knocking Isabelle out. The abduction was methodical, but there were still too many gaps. Too many things that didn’t align.

“You don’t remember seeing his face, or hearing any voices?” Erica asks, keeping her tone gentle despite the urgency building inside her.

“No.” Isabelle replies, shaking her head slightly. “I didn’t see him at all. It was all just… sudden.”

Erica taps her pen lightly against her notepad, considering Isabelle’s account. There’s something about the way Isabelle describes the incident that doesn’t sit right with her. She should have been more shaken, more afraid - yet there’s an eerie calmness in the way Isabelle recounts the event.

“Thank you for walking me through that.” Erica says, offering a reassuring smile despite the questions swirling in her mind. She knows she’ll have to dig deeper into this, but for now, she needs to tread carefully. There’s more to this story than Isabelle is letting on.

Erica leans forward slightly, her gaze sharpening as she decides to probe a little deeper. "So, the only person involved you actually saw until that point was the woman by the car. Can you describe her for me? What did she look like? How old would you say she was?"

Isabelle hesitates, her brow furrowing as she tries to recall the details. "I… I don’t really remember much." she admits, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "She might have been around 30...ish? Brown hair, I think. Honestly, she just looked like an average woman. Nothing remarkable about her. It was dark."

Erica takes careful notes, her pen moving steadily across the page. "Average-looking woman." she repeats softly to herself. "Thank you. Every detail helps."

She pauses for a moment, then decides to shift the focus to what happened after the abduction. "When you came to, Ms. Prescott," Erica continues, her voice calm but probing, "were you alone? Or were the kidnappers there with you? Did they say anything to you?"

Isabelle swallows hard, her hands resting tensely in her lap. "At least the man was there." she answers, her voice quieter now, more hesitant. "He told me that they were holding me for ransom and that they wanted 10 Million Dollars for my release. And that if my father didn’t pay, they would kill me." Isabelle’s eyes flicker with a brief tremor of fear. "I was scared, Ms. Sinclair. Really scared."

Erica nods, her expression sympathetic yet controlled. "I’d have been scared, too, Isabelle." she says, her voice soft but with an edge of sincerity. "It must have been a terrifying experience."

Isabelle shifts slightly in her seat, nodding vigorously as though the memory is still too close for comfort. Erica lets the silence linger for a moment, allowing the weight of the story to settle between them. But she can't help the doubt in the back of her mind. Something still feels off about all of this.

She leans back slightly in her chair, softening her tone but keeping her focus sharp. "Out of interest, Ms. Prescott," she begins, her voice calm but inquisitive, "how did they treat you during your captivity? Were you cuffed to the bed the whole time, or did they let you stretch your legs now and then? Did they allow you to use the toilet? Clean up - maybe take a quick shower? And did they give you anything to eat or drink?"

Isabelle closes her eyes for a moment, as if replaying the experience before her inner eyes. "No." she finally says, her voice low and flat. "I was tied to the bed the entire time, gagged and blindfolded. I think they left me alone most of the time, but sometimes… sometimes they gave me a sip of water." Isabelle swallows hard. "There was no shower or working toilet in that cellar."

Erica nods, scribbling down the details with precision. "What a bad situation." she comments softly, her pen scratching against the paper. "That must have been unbearable."

Isabelle doesn’t respond immediately, the tension in her posture speaking louder than her words. Erica decides to press a little further, testing the boundaries of her patience. "Since you were alone most of the time, did you try to free yourself from the handcuffs?" she asks gently.

Isabelle opens her eyes, her expression tight. "I did." she admits. "I tried for hours when I thought they had left me alone, but I couldn’t. They were too tight."

Erica’s pen pauses mid-air. She offers a nod of understanding. "Understandable." she replies, her tone sympathetic. "They used heavy-duty handcuffs on you."

She watches Isabelle closely as she speaks, her words smooth but her thoughts critical. The story was thin and worked only if everybody respected her wish not to talk about her terrible experience anymore.
But too much, Erica thinks, wasn’t adding up.

[LunaDog]

But too much, Erica thinks, wasn’t adding up.

My sentiment entirely.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, yet, is there proof? Or is it just a hunch?

[Caesar73]

Yes, definitely, there are quite a few things not adding up. I concur with @LunaDog Excellent @Jenny_S !

[Jenny_S]

@LunaDog , @Caesar73 Tonight we will know more.

[Jenny_S]

Erica watches Isabelle carefully, the rhythm of her pen slowing as she digests her thoughts. There’s something too neat, too rehearsed about the way Isabelle described her captivity. No cop in the world would buy this. The inconsistencies - clean hair, spotless clothes, no marks on her wrists, and now this vague, implausible account of being restrained for days without any basic human needs met - were glaring.

Enough was enough.

Erica leans forward, her gaze sharp, abandoning the pretense of politeness. "Isabelle," she says, her voice low but firm, "would you care to explain why you're dishing me out a load of lies, please?"

Isabelle's eyes widen in shock, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words come out. The air between them thickens with tension, the hum of the waterfall in the background the only sound cutting through the silence.

Erica doesn't let up. She crosses her arms, her eyes locked on Isabelle. "I don’t believe one word you said after you spoke about leaving that party." Her tone is flat, leaving no room for negotiation.

Isabelle closes her mouth, looking down at her hands, the indignation she might have summoned lost in the weight of Erica’s accusation. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but still says nothing.

Erica presses on, her voice hardening. "I know when someone is lying to me, and you’ve been doing a terrible job of covering up whatever it is you’re hiding. So, why don’t you save us both some time and start telling the truth?"

She waits, the silence between them charged with the confrontation. Isabelle’s face pales slightly, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. For the first time, her polished, poised demeanor cracks.

“This is…this is ridiculous!” she finally burst out.

Isabelle’s eyes flare with sudden fury, her voice trembling as she erupts, "How dare you? I was kidnapped! Tied to that bed for days - gagged and blindfolded. I’ve already told you everything!" Her voice cracks, but the indignation in it rings hollow.

Erica stays silent for a moment, the weight of Isabelle’s outburst hanging in the air between them. Slowly, deliberately, she closes her notepad and looks at Isabelle with an intensity that cuts right through her facade.

“You’re lucky your father didn’t involve the police." Erica says, her voice calm, measured. "They would have torn your story apart faster than I ever could."

Isabelle flinches, but Erica doesn’t let up. “When John Dance and I found you, you weren’t just clean - you smelled of body wash. Your underwear was fresh. There was no stench of sweat, no urine, nothing. That filthy mattress you were lying on - those stains were years old and completely dry.”

Isabelle shifts uncomfortably, her anger now visibly slipping into unease.

Erica's eyes narrow as she gestures toward Isabelle’s wrists, which are hidden beneath the long sleeves of her blouse. “Pull your sleeves up, Isabelle. Go on.”

Isabelle hesitates, frozen for a beat too long.

“Have you ever seen someone who’s been handcuffed for days?” Erica’s voice sharpens, slicing through Isabelle’s hesitation. “Their wrists are bruised, raw - sometimes bleeding if they’ve fought the cuffs long enough. But you? You have no marks at all.” Erica pauses, letting the words sink in. “I know why you didn’t want your family doctor to examine you. He’d have noticed it too.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the space between them thick with the weight of exposed lies.

Isabelle's cheeks flush red, her posture rigid. She opens her mouth to protest, but the words die in her throat as Erica leans in, her voice now a low, dangerous whisper.

“Shall I go on, Isabelle? Or do you want to come clean?”

The room feels smaller, more suffocating as Isabelle’s composure cracks further. Her bravado fades, replaced by a raw, vulnerable silence. The tension in her body gives way to an undeniable truth - she’s cornered, and there’s no escaping it.




Isabelle's breath quickens, her chest rising and falling as she stares at Erica, her face flushed with a mix of anger and panic. Her hands tremble slightly as she pulls her sleeves down even further, as if hiding them might erase the truth.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet hum of the waterfall behind them, the sound of Erica’s calm, steady breathing, and the weight of the unspoken words hanging between them. Erica doesn’t flinch, waiting for Isabelle to speak, giving her no room to escape.

“I…” Isabelle stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. She looks away, blinking rapidly as if trying to find the right words, the ones that might make this go away. “You don’t understand…”

“Oh, I think I do.” Erica cuts in, her voice unwavering. “You staged this, didn’t you? The kidnapping, the ransom, everything.” She narrows her eyes. “You and your friend Miranda set this whole thing up and somebody else is involved as well.”

Isabelle’s eyes flicker with a brief spark of defiance, but it fades as quickly as it appeared. She lowers her gaze, her composure cracking, the weight of the confrontation sinking in. For the first time, she looks vulnerable - not the poised, controlled daughter of a millionaire, but a young woman caught in the web of her own deceit.

Tears well up in her eyes, but she bites down hard on her lower lip, refusing to let them fall. When she speaks again, her voice is strained, trembling under the weight of her guilt. “I didn’t have a choice.” she finally says, her voice barely audible. “You don’t know what it’s like…being in this family. You don’t know what my father is capable of.”

Erica leans back slightly, her expression still unreadable, but the sharpness in her gaze softens just a fraction. “So this was your solution? To fake a kidnapping and steal ten million dollars from him?”

Isabelle lets out a shaky breath, the words rushing out in a mix of desperation and shame. “You don’t get it. He’s destroying people’s lives, Miss Sinclair. Those homes in Greenpoint… the people living there… Miranda’s grandparents…he’s buying up their loans just to bulldoze their homes and build some soulless shopping center.” She swallows hard, her hands still trembling. “I couldn’t stand by and watch it happen. I couldn’t let him ruin more lives.”

Erica studies her, the pieces of the puzzle slowly clicking into place. The staged kidnapping, the ransom, the missing money - it wasn’t greed driving Isabelle. It was something more complicated. Something personal. Erica keeps her voice steady as she asks, “And you think stealing from him makes you any better?”

Isabelle looks up, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desperation. “I was going to give the money back to the people. To save their homes.” She wipes at her tears angrily, frustrated with herself for breaking down. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch this. This was the only way we could stop this program.”

For a moment, Erica says nothing, letting the weight of Isabelle’s confession settle between them. Then she speaks, her tone firm but not without a trace of understanding. “I get it. You’re angry. You’re hurt. But you crossed a line, Isabelle.”

Isabelle closes her eyes, more tears spilling down her cheeks. “I know.” she whispers. “I know.”

Erica sighs, the tension in the room thick but now layered with something more human. Compassion, perhaps. She glances at her notepad, the bullet points of questions she had planned to ask now irrelevant. She sets it aside, focusing fully on the young woman sitting in front of her.

“We’ll figure this out.” Erica says, her voice softening just a little. “But you need to come clean. With your father, with everyone.”

Isabelle looks up at her, her eyes wide with fear. “He’ll never forgive me.”

Erica gives her a hard look. “Maybe not. But running from this isn’t going to help anyone. You want to fix things? Start by telling the truth.”




Isabelle stands up, her face pale but resolute, and moves toward the sliding glass door that leads to the terrace. She glances back at Erica, then speaks quietly, "I think it's time you hear everything. Miranda should be here for this."

Erica watches Isabelle step out onto the terrace, her gaze briefly sweeping over the outdoor part of the lush, well-kept greenery of the Prescott garden. The late morning sun streams through the glass, casting warm rays onto the marble floor. Isabelle pulls out her phone, sending a quick text before turning back toward the house. Within minutes, Miranda appears, walking quickly across the garden path. Her expression is serious, a heavy burden of emotions shadowing her eyes.

Erica leans back in her chair, waiting as the two young women approach. The tension in the air is palpable. Miranda joins them at the table, her gaze shifting between Erica and Isabelle before she speaks.

“We didn’t mean for it to get this far.” Miranda begins, her voice tight with nerves. “But after what happened to my grandparents, I…I couldn’t stand by anymore. And Isabelle…she couldn’t either.”

Erica crosses her arms, staying quiet for now. She can feel the weight of the confession coming, and she wants to hear it all before she reacts.

Miranda takes a deep breath. “My grandparents, the Gretzkys - they used to live in Greenpoint. They were there for decades, and then one day, they lost their home. Their loan was bought up by a real estate firm - Future Developments. They couldn’t keep up with the payments because of all the fees, and then, just like that, they were evicted.”

Miranda’s hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. “It wasn’t just them. One by one, everyone on their block lost their homes. The entire block was gone within weeks. Now they’re living with my parents…they lost everything.”

Isabelle jumps in, her voice trembling. “When Miranda told me, I wanted to help. I thought maybe my father could do something, pull some strings to help the people who lost their homes. But then we found out…it was him. His company, Future Developments. He’s the one who orchestrated everything.”

Erica's eyes narrow slightly, but she remains calm, processing the information.

“We did some digging” Isabelle continues, “and we found out that through Future Developments my father’s been buying up distressed loans in Greenpoint. He’s planning to sell the entire block to some investor - a developer who wants to bulldoze everything and put up a luxury shopping center right in the middle of the neighborhood.” Her voice hardens. “Otherwise, the investor wouldn’t have been able to source enough land for such a massive project.”

Miranda looks down at her hands, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “This wasn’t just about my grandparents. It’s about the whole community. All those people – families - kicked out of their homes just so someone can build a mall. Isabelle couldn’t stand by and watch her father do that. Neither could I. Does Gentrification mean something to you, Miss Sinclair?”

Isabelle takes a deep breath. “So…we came up with a plan. We wanted to force my father to give the money back, to help the people he displaced. That’s why we staged the kidnapping. With Mikael’s help - Miranda’s cousin - we set everything up. The fake emails, the ransom, the photos. Mikael handcuffed me to the bed in that old cellar for the pictures, and then later helped set me up for up the ‘rescue.’ We thought we were doing the right thing.”

Erica leans forward, her face expressionless, though her mind is racing. “Do you have any proof of this? Of what your father’s been doing?”

Miranda doesn’t hesitate. She pulls out her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she navigates through her files. She hands it to Erica, showing her screenshots of emails, contracts, and financial documents that tie Future Developments to Jonathan Prescott and the investor behind the shopping center plan.

Erica scrolls through the evidence, her expression tightening as she takes in the details. The communication between Future Developments and the investor is laid out in black and white - cold, undeniable proof of Jonathan Prescott’s involvement in the predatory lending scheme Miranda and Isabelle spoke about.
She knows that Greenpoint is an up-and-coming part of the city with more and more young, hip, affluent people moving in to transform a neighborhood – or the whole part of the city - from low value to high value and displace lower income residents. Yes, Gentrification means something to her.

After a long pause, Erica hands the phone back to Miranda. Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge of gravity to it. “You need to talk to your father, Isabelle.”

Isabelle flinches slightly at the suggestion, but Erica doesn’t stop. “I admire your sense of justice, both of you. But this…faking a kidnapping, stealing ten million dollars? That’s not how you make things right.”

Shifting uneasily in her seat, Miranda has guilt flickering in her eyes. “We didn’t know what else to do.” she says softly. “He wouldn’t listen to us any other way.”

Erica shakes her head slowly. “Two wrongs don’t make a right, ladies. And now you’re in deeper than you realize. This could ruin you - both of you.”

Isabelle’s face pales, the weight of Erica’s words sinking in. “But… I can’t just let him get away with it. He’s hurting people.”

“I’m not saying you should.” Erica says, her voice firm but not unkind. “But there’s a better way to do this. A way that doesn’t involve deceit and fraud.”

For a long moment, none of them speak. The quiet hum of the garden’s waterfall fills the silence, the weight of the conversation pressing down on all of them.

Finally, Erica stands up, her eyes steady on Isabelle. “If you want to fix this, you need to come clean. With your father, with the people who got hurt - and if it comes to it - with the authorities.”

Miranda looks at Isabelle, her face tight with worry. Isabelle bites her lip, fear and uncertainty warring in her expression. “And if I do that…what happens to me?” she whispers.

Erica meets her gaze, her expression unwavering. “You might face consequences. But at least you’ll be facing them with the truth on your side. It’s your only shot at making things right.”

The weight of those words hangs in the air. For the first time, Isabelle looks truly lost, the enormity of her situation crashing down on her. Miranda reaches over and places a hand on Isabelle’s arm, offering silent support.

“We’ll figure it out.” Miranda whispers. “We’ll do the right thing.”

Isabelle swallows hard, blinking back tears as she nods slowly, her resolve beginning to harden again. “Okay.” she whispers. “I’ll talk to my father.”

Erica watches them both for a moment, then nods. “Good. We’ll go from there.”

The tension lingers, but something has shifted. Isabelle and Miranda understand the gravity of what they’ve done - and what they need to do next.


Erica calls Jonathan Prescott on his personal phone. She tells him that she now knows where the ten million dollars are and that she would like to talk to him in private: her office, 3PM this afternoon.
Prescott breathes a sigh of relief: his daughter safely returned and the money within reach? Of course, he’ll be there.

Erica ends the call and looks at Isabelle and Miranda who have been listening to her talking to Isabelle’s father. “We will meet on neutral ground. Be there at 2:30PM and if you can, Miranda, bring your cousin.”

She gets up. “Be sure you know how to break it to Mr Prescott and bring your evidence. I’ll try to help you save what can be saved.”

As she walks to the elevator, she realizes that she just said: I’ll try to help you…
For some reason she sympathizes with the two young women, but she also understands what might happen if the meeting with Prescott turns into a train wreck.

[Jenny_S]

Dear readers,
before we continue this story pivotal in the character development of my protagonist, I'd like to do some shameless self-promotion.
Nope, I'm not making any money with this, it's purely for your benefit and it doesn't cost anything.

I publish my stories full-length on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Here you can read my stories without waiting for yet another installment and I'll keep them online there so i case you want to revisit them later.

I'd also like to thank you for your interest in Erica Sinclair and your kind support of my writing.

Love,
Jenny

[Caesar73]

I have the feeling, the Meeting with Prescott Senior might get interesting

[LunaDog]

Yes, i'm sure it will. Basically his daughter ripped him off, even if for understandable and reasonable reasons. Not that he'll see it that way, of course.

Oh, to be a fly on THAT particular wall!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , @LunaDog Let's see how the meeting unfolds.

[Jenny_S]

At 2:30 PM sharp, Erica’s assistant, Claire, announces, “Ms. Sinclair, Isabelle Prescott, Miranda Lang and a Mikael Gretzky are here to see you.”

Erica looks up, nodding. “Thank you, Claire. Show them to the conference room. Mr. Prescott will be joining us shortly.”

As Isabelle, Miranda, and Mikael file into the room, Erica greets them with a quiet but firm presence. “I don’t have a waterfall to offer,” she says with a half-smile, “but I promise the coffee is good. Would you like some before we begin?” Her tone is calm, but the tension in the air is unmistakable. As the young people sit, Erica listens intently while they rehearse what they plan to say.

She studies them - Miranda, clearly anxious but determined; Isabelle, a mix of defiance and vulnerability; and Mikael, silent, playing his supporting role in the background.

The door swings open a few minutes later, and Jonathan Prescott strides in, his personality heavy and commanding. His eyes move swiftly from Isabelle to Miranda to Mikael, and then finally to Erica, his expression unreadable.

Erica stands and shakes his hand with a firm, steady grip. “Please, Mr. Prescott, have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Miranda hesitantly sets a cup of coffee down before him, her hands trembling slightly. She avoids eye contact, clearly bracing herself for what’s to come. Prescott glances at the coffee, but doesn’t touch it, his attention fixed on the scene before him, on his daughter.



“Mr. Prescott,” Erica begins, “as I mentioned earlier, we’ve located the missing ten million dollars. It’s in the hands of these three young people.” She gestures toward the group, and Prescott's brow furrows. “I’ll leave it to them to explain why.”

A heavy pause follows as all eyes turn to Isabelle. She takes a deep breath, her fingers nervously twisting together, and then she speaks.

“Dad… there was no kidnapping.” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper. Prescott stiffens, his face a mask of confusion and growing tension, eyebrows seemingly knitting together. He opens his mouth to respond, but Isabelle cuts him off, launching into the story.

As Isabelle and Miranda take turns explaining how they uncovered the truth behind the Greenfield development plans, Jonathan Prescott shifts uncomfortably in his chair. His breathing grows audible, the tension rising as the realization of what his daughter and her friends have done sinks in.

Miranda pulls out her phone, showing him the photo of her grandparents, frail and exhausted, sitting on the edge of a small guest room bed. “Mr. Prescott, this is where they live now. They lost their home because of Future Developments. You own that company. And their neighbors - people they’ve known for decades - are facing the same fate.”

Prescott stares at the screen, the image of Miranda’s grandparents locked in his gaze. His stern expression doesn’t falter, but Erica can see it in his eyes - the moment of impact. The cold calculus of profit crumbling under the weight of real human suffering.



“Dad, we couldn’t let it happen.” Isabelle says, her voice cracking with emotion. “For you, it’s a business opportunity. But for them? It’s their lives. We…we had to do something.” Her voice trembles, but she presses on, desperate to make her father understand. “I thought maybe… if I could make you see what it feels like… you’d stop.”

Jonathan pushes his chair back and stands abruptly, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his back now turned to them. He inhales sharply, and for a moment, it seems like he might explode in anger. The tension in the room spikes.

But instead, he bows his head slightly, exhaling slowly, like a man deflating under the weight of a burden he didn’t know he was carrying. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost broken. “I’m glad you were never really in danger, Isa.” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion he struggles to suppress.

Isabelle stands, crossing the room to her father, no longer afraid of the confrontation. She sees now, after everything, that the man standing before her isn’t just the cold, calculating businessman she once thought. He’s the man who didn’t hesitate to pay ten million dollars for her safe return, her father. There is more to him than she ever knew.

“The money isn’t gone, Dad.” she says softly, standing just inches from him. “But please… I want us to give it back to the people we’ve hurt. To Miranda’s grandparents. To all the families who lost their homes.”

Jonathan turns to face his daughter, his expression still rigid, but his eyes - his eyes are different. They’re filled with uncertainty, vulnerability. For the first time, he’s seeing his daughter not as a Prescott, but as someone who’s fought for something beyond herself.

“I never meant…” he starts, but the words choke off. He’s spent a lifetime making tough decisions, compartmentalizing, keeping his emotions in check. But now, faced with the stark consequences of his actions, he’s lost for words.

Erica, sensing the shift, steps in. “It’s easy to overlook the human cost when you’re only looking at the profits, Mr. Prescott.” she says, her voice steady. “But these aren’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. These are people’s lives - people like Miranda’s grandparents. Families who’ve been left with nothing.”

Prescott swallows hard, his jaw clenched as the weight of regret begins to settle in. He looks at Miranda, then at the photo of her grandparents still on her phone. His gaze lingers there, and for a moment, his hands twitch as though he might reach out - but he stops himself.

Isabelle steps closer, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not a bad person, Dad. But sometimes…you forget that there’s more to life than business. You have a chance to make this right.”

With that, she moves closer and wraps her arms around him. For a brief second, he remains stiff, unyielding. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her father’s arms come up around her, pulling her close. It’s a gesture filled with both regret and love, and as he exhales a long, held breath, his shoulders sag as though the weight of his choices has finally settled on him.

He looks down at Isabelle, his voice quieter now. “We’ll make this right, Isa. I promise.”

Jonathan Prescott clears his throat, his voice steadier but still laced with emotion. “The money…it’s theirs. The families. We’ll do what we should have done from the beginning.”

Isabelle smiles at him for the first time in what feels like years. “Thank you, Dad.”

As Erica watches Isabelle and her father embrace, a bold idea surfaces in her mind. She steps forward, her voice soft but resolute. “Mr. Prescott, I know it’s not my place to make suggestions, but you could do more – so much more. You could turn Future Developments into what the name promises.”

Prescott looks at her, his brow furrowed slightly in curiosity.

Erica continues, "If you’ll give me ten minutes of your time tomorrow afternoon, I’d like to introduce you to someone who made a lasting impression on me during this investigation.”

Prescott nods, a cautious smile tugging at his lips. “Certainly, Miss Sinclair. But please, no more surprises like today.”

With her right hand over her heart, Erica promises, “No surprises. Only solutions.”


As they leave the conference room, the tense atmosphere that had once enveloped the group begins to dissipate. Prescott, Isabelle, Miranda, and Mikael exchange quiet words, their interactions now tinged with a sense of tentative hope. The damage hasn’t been undone, but there’s now a path forward. Jonathan Prescott, once driven solely by profit, is beginning to transform into someone who might stand for something greater.

Erica watches them for a moment, satisfied yet reflective. “Stand for something or fall for anything.” she murmurs to herself before walking to her office to gather her keys and handbag.

On her way to the elevator, she pauses by Claire’s desk. “I’m out for the day.” she says with a small smile. “There are two fuzzballs waiting for me at home.”

Claire beams back. “Of course, Miss Sinclair. I’m glad you and the little ones are getting along so well.”

Erica chuckles softly and heads out.





Later, Erica finds herself driving through Brooklyn, a detour she didn’t initially plan but which now feels right. Parking in front of an unassuming apartment building not far from the internet café she’d visited days earlier, she climbs two flights of stairs, her steps deliberate and sure. She smooths her jacket’s lapels, her fingers brushing over the fine fabric as she stops in front of Severine Alba’s door.

Erica takes a deep breath before ringing the bell.

It takes a moment, but when Severine answers, her face is a mixture of surprise and guarded wariness.
“Yes?” Severine asks, her tone laced with suspicion.

Erica offers a warm smile, placing a hand over her chest in a gesture of openness. “Mrs. Alba, I’d like to talk to you about something important. It’s about your daughter Luna.”

Severine’s expression hardens at the mention of her daughter, but there’s a flicker of curiosity beneath the guarded exterior. “What about her?”

“I’ve been having conversations since we last spoke - ones that could change Luna’s future.” Erica replies, her tone gentle but steady.

Severine hesitates, her fingers tightening on the door, but after a moment’s thought, she steps aside, allowing Erica in.

The apartment is modest, but well-kept. The living room is filled with small touches of Luna’s presence: books scattered across the table, a well-worn stuffed bunny resting on the couch. Erica glances around, taking in the small, personal details before turning back to Severine.

“What are you offering?” Severine asks, her arms folded across her chest, protective and cautious.

Erica takes a step closer, speaking carefully. “I’m working with someone who has the means to help. Schools, education, even the chance for college. Opportunities that might not otherwise come her way.”

Severine’s posture softens slightly, but her hesitation remains. “Why would someone like you want to help us?”

Erica meets her gaze, her own emotions clear in her voice. “Because Luna deserves a chance. She’s bright, and her future could be full of potential. And I want to be sure she gets that chance.”

Severine’s eyes search Erica’s face for a long moment, her guard still up but faltering. Finally, she exhales slowly, nodding. “We can talk.”




The next afternoon, Erica’s black Volvo pulls up in front of Severine Alba’s building. Severine and Luna wait outside, both dressed in their best - Severine in a plain, elegant dress, and Luna in a frilly white outfit, clutching her stuffed bunny tightly. The little girl’s wide eyes dart around, nervous but excited.

As Erica steps out, she greets them with a reassuring smile. “Ready?”

Severine nods, though her apprehension is clear as she helps Luna into the car.

The drive to West 57th Street is quiet, the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air. Severine glances at the towering buildings as they approach Prescott Holdings, her grip tightening on Luna’s small hand. Erica, in a dark green silk blouse and tailored black suit, leads them down into the underground garage where security ushers them in.

Luna stares in awe at her visitor badge, her name printed boldly. “Mommy, look! It’s my name!”

Severine forces a smile. “Yes, baby. It’s your name.”

When they arrive on Prescott Holdings' floor, they’re greeted by a receptionist who leads them to a plush meeting room. Nervous energy crackles in the air, and Erica gives Severine a small nod, silently telling her it’ll be okay.

Minutes later, Jonathan Prescott enters the room with Isabelle beside him. Erica watches as Severine stiffens, instinctively pulling Luna closer. The little girl, unaware of the significance of this meeting, clutches her bunny tighter, her wide eyes curious as they take in the imposing man.



Erica speaks first. “Mr. Prescott, this is Mrs. Alba and her daughter, Luna.” She keeps her introduction short, avoiding the complications of their last encounter. “Mrs. Alba has been through a lot, and Luna... well, I mentioned yesterday that Future Developments could live up to its name by shaping futures for people like Luna.”

Prescott listens, his eyes flickering between Severine and her daughter. Slowly, he crouches down to meet Luna’s gaze.

“Do you like school, Luna?” he asks gently.

Luna nods shyly, loosening her grip on the bunny just enough to give him a timid smile.

Jonathan Prescott rises, glancing at Severine before speaking again. “We’ll make sure she has the best education available to her - her, and others like her.”

His voice carries the weight of a promise. Severine’s eyes fill with emotion, her voice almost a whisper. “Thank you.”

Isabelle smiles, seeing her father’s unexpected warmth. For the first time, she sees a man trying to atone for his past rather than the distant businessman she once feared.





That evening, as Erica walks through her neighborhood on West 72nd Street, she reflects on the day’s events. The golden hour light filters through the city, casting a warm glow on everything. The case is no longer just about resolving a mystery; it’s a story of transformation - for Jonathan Prescott, for Luna, and even for Erica herself.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of her work and the quiet satisfaction that comes from seeing real change.

[LunaDog]

Excellent! Mr Prescott proves to have a human heart inside of him after all, but it still takes his daughter some time to uncover it.

And how can NOT enjoy a story that ends well for a character named LUNA? Cue another loud 'WOOF' from somebody else of that name!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog Severine and her daughter were too cool as characters not to bring them in for the finale.
I hope all my readers can picture the rich, luxurious environment the Prescotts -and to an extent, Erica, too- live in and the lower end apartment where Severine tries to make ends meet. We all know there's the rich and the poor, but at least in our fiction we can give someone like Luna the opportunity to climb the ladder to a better life.

I hope you all enjoyed this story and I can already promise that Erica Sinclair will be back in another adventure called "Shadows of the Past". And boy, it's going to get hairy for Erica.

[Caesar73]

What an End: You show Prescott from a different side - and it is a good side to see. How he talks to and with Luna? It seems Isabelle´s Father is open for a change! Well done. @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , Jonathan Prescott still seems a little stiff around underprivileged kids, but I think Future Developments will make an impact on many lives.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73 , Jonathan Prescott still seems a little stiff around underprivileged kids, but I think Future Developments will make an impact on many lives.

That would be a good thing - for sure. So in the End? Things played out well.

[Jenny_S]

@Caesar73 Sometimes it does. I'll start Erica's next adventure "Shadows of the Past" next week. Can you spell PERIL?

[Caesar73]

Barely

[Jenny_S]

You will when you read "Shasows of the Past". Believe me.
I'll start the story coming Monday.

[Caesar73]

I just quote the Monkees here "I am believer"

Wonderful song!

[LunaDog]

@Caesar73 Sometimes it does. I'll start Erica's next adventure "Shadows of the Past" next week. Can you spell PERIL?

Looking forward to it already.