Chapter 7 - The SafehouseWe found Victoria living in a rundown rowhouse in South Baltimore, two miles from the polished high-rises of the Inner Harbor. Rain poured from a broken gutter above her porch as Reed knocked three times on the chipped wooden door.

When the door opened, it stayed on its security chain. A thin, sharp-featured woman in her early thirties looked out at us, her eyes darting nervously to the dark sedan parked down the street.

"Victoria?" I stepped into the dim light of the porch lantern so she could see my face clearly. "My name is Clara Mercer. Daniel Mercer's wife."

The latch released instantly, and the door swung wide.

The house smelled of damp plaster and cheap tea. Boxes were stacked near the hallway, half-packed, as if she had been preparing to run at a moment's notice.

"You shouldn't be here," Victoria said, her hands trembling as she locked three separate deadbolts behind us. "If Daniel finds out you came here—"

"Daniel was arrested last night," Reed interrupted gently, flashing his badge. "He’s in central booking."

Victoria let out a shaky laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Central booking? Do you really think that holds a man like Daniel? He doesn't need to be outside to hurt people, Detective. He has people inside the department, inside the state attorney's office..."

"Victoria," I said, taking a step toward her. I pulled down the high collar of my coat, exposing the fading yellow-green mark where Daniel had grabbed my jaw two weeks ago, right beside the fresh bruised outline from last night. "I spent five years believing he was invincible. I helped him hide it. But I watched him build the network, and I have the air-gapped drive from his office."

Victoria went still. "The Safekeeping drive?"

"Yes," I replied. "Your name is in it. Your original statement against Senator Vance’s nephew is in it. Daniel didn't just protect Julian Vance; he used your pain to secure the Senator's vote for Mercer House's municipal grants."

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Victoria sat down heavily on a worn sofa, burying her face in her hands. "He told me if I ever spoke to a prosecutor, he’d release altered records showing I stole from the shelter. He said no judge in Maryland would take my word over his."

"He told me the exact same thing," I said softly, sitting beside her. "Word for word."