The morning after the museum had felt like the beginning of a masterpiece. Lyra had woken up with the taste of peppermint still ghosting on her tongue and a new violet-hued abstract drying on her easel. She had spent the day in a state of rare, humming productivity, the kind where the colors seem to jump onto the brush of their own accord. Even Barnaby seemed to sense her high spirits, choosing to nap on the windowsill rather than shredding her sketches.
But by 4:00 p.m., the air in the "closet with a sink" grew heavy, the way it does right before a summer storm breaks.
Lyra was midway through cleaning a set of brushes when her phone shrieked from the kitchen counter. She wiped her hands on her paint-splattered apron, expecting a frantic text from Maeve about a forgotten grocery list or a check-in from her mother.
Instead, the screen displayed a number she didn't recognize.
"Hello?"
"Lyra? Lyra, is that you?"
The voice was frantic, thin, and pitched an octave higher than usual. It took her a second to realize it was Dorian.
"Dorian? What's going on? You sound like you've run a marathon."
"Lyra, listen to me. I need you to come to the 14th Precinct. Right now." There was a muffled sound in the background, the heavy thud of a metal door and the indistinct drone of a police radio. "I've been... there was a misunderstanding. They have me in a cell, Ly. They took my belt, my watch, everything."
Lyra felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her lightheaded. The brush in her hand clattered into the sink, splashing gray water onto her shoes. "A cell? Dorian, what are you talking about? What misunderstanding?"
"I can't talk about it over the phone, they're cutting me off," he hissed, his voice trembling with a desperation that made her skin crawl. "Just come. Bring money for bail. Whatever we have in the emergency fund. Please, Lyra. Don't tell Mom. Just come."
The line went dead.
Lyra stood frozen for a heartbeat, her mind reeling. Dorian was the "golden boy." He was the one who followed the rules, the one who wore the suits and tracked the logistics and kept his life in a series of neat, predictable boxes. People like Dorian didn't end up in cells.
"Barnaby, stay," she whispered, a senseless command to a cat who wasn't moving anyway.
She grabbed her coat and her bag, her hands shaking so violently she fumbled with the locks. She didn't have bail money. Their "emergency fund" was a ceramic jar on the shelf that currently held sixty-four dollars and a handful of loose buttons. But she didn't think about the math; she only thought about the terror in her brother's voice.
The subway ride was a nightmare of slow stops and screeching brakes. By the time Lyra burst through the heavy doors of the 14th Precinct, she was breathless, her hair windblown and the smudge of ochre paint from her morning studio session still decorating her jawline. The station was a cacophony of ringing phones, shouting officers, and the stagnant smell of floor wax and old coffee.
"I'm here for Dorian Sinclair," she gasped, leaning against the high wooden desk of the sergeant on duty. "He called me. He's being held here."
The sergeant, a man who looked like he had seen everything and found none of it interesting, checked a ledger. "Sinclair. Yeah. Second floor, holding area. You can have ten minutes."
Lyra was led through a series of buzzing gates and sterile hallways until she reached a small, glass-walled room. Inside, sitting on a bench that looked painfully uncomfortable, was her brother.
Dorian looked like a ghost of himself. His polished suit was wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and the "Senior Associate" confidence he had worn like armor for years had completely evaporated. When he saw Lyra, he stood up so fast he nearly tripped.
"Lyra! Thank God."
"Dorian, what happened?" she demanded, her voice cracking as she pressed her hands against the glass. "The officer said something about 'complainants.' What did you do?"
Dorian looked away, his jaw working. "I didn't do anything wrong, Ly. I just... I tried to fix things. The family, the debt... I thought I could move some things around and put them back before anyone noticed. But they noticed."
"Put things back?" Lyra's heart sank into her stomach. "Dorian, are you telling me you took money? From the firm?"
"I'm not saying anything!" Dorian snapped, his eyes darting to the security camera in the corner. "Just get me out of here. Call a bondsman. Call anyone."
"I don't have the money, Dorian! We don't have that kind of money!" She felt a sob rising in her throat but forced it down. "How much is the bail? I'll find a way, I'll talk to the captain"
"You won't get anything out of the captain, Miss Sinclair."
Lyra spun around. A man stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place in the grimy precinct. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that was as sharp as a blade, carrying a slim leather attaché case. He didn't look like a policeman; he looked like the person who owned the police.
"Who are you?" Lyra asked, her voice defensive. "Are you, his lawyer?"
"My name is Ellis Woods," the man said, his voice a low, professional hum. "I am the legal representative for the complainant, Thorne Logistics. And I'm afraid you won't be able to get your brother out on bail."
"Why not?" Lyra demanded. "Everyone has a right to bail."
"In cases of high-value corporate embezzlement, when the evidence is as... comprehensive as what we have on your brother, the complainant can request a hold for further investigation. There is no bail amount that will open that door today, Miss Sinclair. Not until the DA finishes the preliminary review."
Lyra felt the room tilt. "Then why am I here? If I can't help him, why did you let me in?"
Ellis adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. "Because my client, the CEO of Thorne Logistics, has expressed a desire to settle this matter with a degree of discretion. He believes there may be a way to resolve the debt your brother has incurred without involving the federal authorities. But he will only discuss the terms of this arrangement with you. Personally."
"With me?" Lyra whispered. "I don't even know him. I don't know anything about logistics."
"He is waiting for you now," Ellis said, stepping aside to reveal the hallway. "I have a car outside. You could stay here and watch your brother be processed into the general population, or you can come with me and hear what Mr. Thorne has to offer."
Lyra looked back at Dorian. Her brother was watching her with a pathetic, pleading look in his eyes. He looked small. He looked like the boy who used to hide behind her when they were kids, and he'd broken one of their father's favorite records.
"Go, Lyra," Dorian whispered, his voice cracking. "Please. Just see what he wants. If he helps me, I can fix this. I promise."
Lyra felt like she was trapped in a nightmare where the walls were slowly closing in. She hated the feeling of being handled, of being moved like a piece on a board by men in expensive suits. But as she looked at her brother's broken expression, she knew she didn't have a choice.
"Fine," she said, turning back to Ellis Woods. "I'll go."
The walk to the car was a blur. The vehicle was a black sedan with windows so tinted the world outside looked like a charcoal sketch. Lyra sat in the back; her hands tucked into her sleeves to hide their trembling.
She thought of the "Mr. Thorne" she had heard about in the museum, the invisible giant who owned the building where her brother worked. She imagined an old, callous man with a heart of stone, someone who sat in a dark office counting his gold while people like her brother rotted in cells.
I can do this; she told herself as the car pulled away from the curb. I'll explain that we're good for the money. I'll find a way to pay it back over time. He's just a man. He has to have a heart.
But as the car sped toward the looming glass towers of the financial district, Lyra couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't going to a meeting. She was going to a sacrifice.
The car pulled into a private, underground garage, and Ellis led her toward a sleek, private elevator.
"He's waiting for you on the penthouse level," the lawyer said as the doors slid shut.
Lyra watched the floor numbers climb, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She smoothed her marigold sweater, suddenly painfully aware of the paint on her face and her messy hair. She was about to walk into the lion's den, and all she had for armor was a name she didn't even know.