Her Vicious Art, His Dark Obsession

The Porsche wove violently through the traffic on Highway 101. Eleanor checked the rearview mirror. "No black SUVs. We're clear." Katelyn didn't relax. She unzipped the canvas duffel bag sitting at her feet. She ripped off the baggy gray tracksuit, revealing a sleek black turtleneck and dark jeans underneath. She pulled a black trench coat over her shoulders and jammed a baseball cap onto her head. The pathetic, trembling orphan vanished. In her place sat a cold, calculating woman with ice in her veins. Katelyn pulled a brand-new smartphone from the bag. She booted it up, connected to an encrypted VPN, and typed in a 32-character alphanumeric password. The screen loaded a dark web cryptocurrency wallet. The balance displayed in Bitcoin was staggering. Millions of dollars. For years, the underground art world had paid a fortune for the chaotic, brilliant works of the anonymous artist known only as "The Wilds." Katelyn's fingers flew across the screen. She transferred a massive chunk of the funds into a secure offshore account to cover the private jet charter and her tuition in London. Eleanor whistled. "If Arnett knew the 'crazy girl' was sitting on a multimillion-dollar empire, he'd have a stroke." "He'll find out eventually," Katelyn said, her voice dead flat. "And when he does, I'm going to take everything from him." The Porsche pulled into the Signature Flight Support terminal at San Francisco International Airport. There were no TSA lines here. No metal detectors. A ground handler in a crisp white shirt walked up to the car. Katelyn handed him her brand-new passport. The name on it read: Kate Vance. The handler nodded respectfully. "Your Gulfstream is ready, Ms. Vance." Katelyn turned to Eleanor. She pulled her into a tight, fierce hug. "Thank you," Katelyn whispered. Eleanor shoved a business card into Katelyn's pocket. "My brother Julian is in London. Stay the hell away from him. He's still tangled up with the Atherton crowd and would sell you out for a designer watch in a heartbeat. This card is for a private fixer I trust. Call him if you need anything." Katelyn nodded, though she had no intention of calling anyone connected to her old life. She walked out onto the tarmac. The wind whipped her trench coat around her legs. She climbed the stairs of the Gulfstream G650 and the heavy door sealed shut behind her. She sank into the plush leather seat and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. As the jet engines roared and the plane tore into the sky, Katelyn looked down at the shrinking California coastline. She didn't cry. She took a sip of the burning liquid and smiled. Back at the Reed estate, Alistair unlocked Katelyn's bedroom door to bring her dinner. He walked to the bed and pulled back the duvet. It was a pile of pillows. Alistair's face drained of color. He hit the panic button on his radio. Sirens blared across the Atherton estate. Arnett burst into the room minutes later. He stared at the empty bed. The veins in his neck bulged. He grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand and hurled it against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces. "Lock down the airports!" Arnett roared, spit flying from his lips. "Call the police! Tell them a severely mentally ill patient has escaped and is a danger to herself!" Across the city, Etienne sat in his sprawling office at the Strickland Syndicate headquarters. Zane walked in and dropped a piece of paper on Etienne's desk. "The Reeds just put out a massive APB," Zane said. "One of their family members went missing." Etienne picked up the paper. It was a missing person flyer. The photo was blurry, taken when the girl was maybe twelve years old. The text below read: Severe PTSD. Extremely fragile. Etienne stared at the grainy photo. There was something vaguely familiar about the shape of her eyes. But his mind immediately flashed to the woman in the closet. The woman who had kissed him with violent hunger. The woman who had manipulated him and escaped like a ghost. There was no way in hell that wild, cunning creature was this pathetic, fragile mental patient. Etienne scoffed. He crumpled the flyer into a ball and tossed it into the trash can. "Drop it," Etienne commanded coldly. "She took the money and ran. I'm done wasting my time." Thirteen hours later, the Gulfstream touched down on the wet tarmac of London Luton Airport. Katelyn stepped out into the freezing drizzle. She took a deep breath of the damp air. She hailed a black cab. "The Royal College of Art, please," she told the driver in a carefully practiced British accent. She had spent countless nights in the dark, mimicking BBC broadcasts on her burner phone until her jaw ached, ensuring her American vowels were completely erased. The hunt was over. The war had begun.