When he returned home, he found his mailbox pried open. Inside lay a single note scrawled in sharp, impatient handwriting: “The vault isn’t yours. Walk away now.” The bluntness rattled him. The writer knew exactly where he lived and felt confident enough to threaten him openly.
Fear flickered, but anger rose stronger. His father had always spoken about doing what was right, even when it came at a cost. Rowan wasn’t about to abandon this trail. Not now. Not when the truth, whatever it was, felt closer than it had ever been in his life.