He Saved His Sister and Left Me to Die

The immigration office was a sterile, fluorescent-lit building that smelled of dust and disappointment. I clutched my folder of paperwork—birth certificate, marriage license, medical records—as I waited in the uncomfortable plastic chair. My appointment was scheduled for 10:30 AM, but like most government agencies, they were running behind.

"Ms. Duncan?" A clerk called my name, her expression apologetic. "There seems to be an issue with your file."

My stomach dropped. "What kind of issue?"

She tapped at her computer, frowning. "It's showing as 'incomplete' even though all the documents appear to be here."

I felt a familiar tightness in my chest—not the artificial heart this time, but pure anxiety.

"Let me call my supervisor," she offered, picking up her phone.

As she stepped away, I pulled out my cell to text Quinn. His plane had landed an hour ago; he was supposed to meet me here after checking into his hotel.

*Having issues with paperwork. Clerk says file shows as incomplete.*

His response came almost instantly: *Stay calm. I anticipated this. Call me.*

I dialed his number, my fingers trembling slightly.

"Rebecca," Quinn's voice was steady, reassuring. "I flagged your file with my credentials before we left. Any attempt to access or alter it would trigger an alert."

"You knew this might happen?" I whispered, moving to a corner of the waiting area.

"Kennedy's desperation makes her predictable," he said simply. "She's trying to delay your departure."

The clerk returned, her expression now confused rather than apologetic. "Ms. Duncan, I'm not sure what happened, but the system is showing your file as complete now. The supervisor says we can proceed with your appointment."

I glanced at my phone, where Quinn had sent a follow-up text: *Dark web contacts traced. Kennedy's plan failed.*

---

Two hours later, I emerged from the immigration office with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The underground parking lot was dimly lit, the concrete pillars creating pools of shadow between the fluorescent lights overhead.

"Rebecca."

I froze at the sound of Jack's voice. He stepped out from behind a pillar, his expensive suit wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot.

"Please," he said, holding up a manila folder. "Just five minutes of your time."

"I have nothing to say to you." I clutched my purse tighter, my fingers brushing against the heart monitor inside.

"It's about your father's estate," Jack continued, moving closer. "The property was never properly transferred to your name after he died."

I stopped walking. "What are you talking about? I sold that house years ago."

"You couldn't sell it," Jack said, his voice gaining confidence. "It was held in trust. Kennedy handled the paperwork, but she never finalized the transfer."

My mind raced. Could this be true? Had Kennedy manipulated even this?

"I have the documents right here," Jack said, opening the folder. "If you sign them, the property is yours. I've already had my lawyers draw everything up."

He gestured toward his SUV parked nearby. "Just need your signature on a few pages. Then you'll be free to go."

Every instinct screamed danger, but curiosity won out. What if there really was property? What if Kennedy had stolen more from me than I realized?

I followed him to the black SUV with heavily tinted windows. He opened the passenger door for me.

"The documents are in the back seat," he said.

As I bent to retrieve them, I noticed something odd about the vehicle—the windows were too dark, the interior too pristine. Before I could straighten up, Jack slammed the door behind me and hit a button on his key fob.

The locks engaged with a definitive click.

"Jack!" I spun around, but he was already moving to the driver's side.

"Please," he said, his voice breaking as he slid behind the wheel. "Just listen to me."

The doors were locked. The windows were sealed. The SUV's interior suddenly felt like a tomb.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, pulling frantically at the door handle.

"We need to talk," Jack said, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened. "Really talk. Without interruptions."

I reached for my phone, but Jack was faster. He lunged across the console and snatched it from my hand.

"No outside interference," he muttered, pocketing my device. "Not this time."

The engine roared to life, and I realized with growing horror that the ventilation system was already pumping in some kind of gas—not enough to suffocate me, but enough to make me dizzy.

"Jack, stop this," I pleaded, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "This isn't going to solve anything."

But the look in his eyes told me he was beyond reason now. Seven years of obsession had finally pushed him over the edge.

"You're not leaving again," he whispered, putting the SUV in drive. "Not until you understand what we had."