I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed and pressed myself against the wall.
The footsteps on the stairs kept coming. Slow. Heavy. Someone big.
My apartment was completely dark. The streetlights outside were out too. Through my window, I could see the whole block had lost power.
Just a power outage. That's all. Not someone coming to hurt me.
But the footsteps didn't stop.
I held my breath. The bat felt slippery in my sweaty hands. My phone was on the kitchen counter—too far away to reach without crossing the room.
The footsteps reached my door.
Then silence.
I waited. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
Nothing happened.
Maybe they went away. Maybe I imagined it.
Then three loud knocks—BAM BAM BAM—shook my door so hard I jumped.
"Isabella Morales?" A man's voice. Deep and rough. "Open up. We need to talk."
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"We know you're in there. Your lights were on a minute ago. We just want to talk."
"Go away!" I shouted. "I'm calling the police!"
"About what? We haven't done anything wrong." The man sounded almost amused. "We're here about your father."
My father?
I hadn't seen my dad in ten years. He'd left right after my little brother died. Just packed a bag one day and disappeared. Mom and I never heard from him again.
"I don't know where he is," I called through the door.
"We know. That's the problem." Another voice spoke now, smoother than the first. "But he owes us money, Miss Morales. A lot of money. And when people can't pay their debts, we collect from family."
My stomach dropped. "What are you talking about?"
"Open the door and we'll explain."
"No way."
The smooth voice sighed. "We're not here to hurt you. We're businessmen. But this is a serious matter. Your father stole from our families. Nearly two million dollars."
Two million dollars? That was impossible. Dad was a mechanic. He fixed cars. Where would he even get that kind of money?
"You're lying," I said.
"Open the door and we'll show you proof."
Every instinct told me not to open that door. But I also knew they could break it down if they wanted to. The lock was old and weak.
I made a decision.
"I'm opening the door," I called out. "But I have a bat and pepper spray. If you try anything, I'll use them."
I didn't actually have pepper spray, but they didn't know that.
I unlocked the door and opened it just a crack, keeping the chain lock on. The bat was ready in my other hand.
Four men stood in my hallway. They all wore expensive-looking coats and had the kind of faces that never smiled—hard and cold. The one in front was huge, probably six and a half feet tall. Behind him stood a shorter man in glasses who looked like a lawyer.
"May we come in?" the man with glasses asked.
"No. Talk from there."
He pulled out a folder and opened it. Even in the dim light from the emergency exit sign, I could see photographs. Bank statements. Documents with my father's signature.
"Your father, Richard Morales, worked for us five years ago," the lawyer-man explained. "We hired him to do some specialized work. Automotive modifications for our shipping company. We paid him well—very well. But six months into the job, he disappeared. Along with one point eight million dollars from our accounts."
I stared at the papers. That was definitely Dad's handwriting. His signature.
"I haven't seen my father in ten years," I said. "I don't know anything about this."
"We believe you," the lawyer-man said. "But that doesn't change the fact that his debt must be paid. In our business, debts pass to family."
"That's not legal. You can't make me pay for something he did."
The huge man in front smiled, and it was the scariest smile I'd ever seen. "Who said anything about legal, little girl?"
"Leave me alone." I tried to close the door, but the big man's foot blocked it.
"We're giving you two weeks," he said. "Find your father, or find the money. Otherwise, we start taking things that matter to you. Your bookstore. Your home. Maybe more."
"I don't have that kind of money!"
"Then find your father." The lawyer-man handed a business card through the crack in the door. "Two weeks, Miss Morales. We'll be in touch."
They turned and walked down the stairs. I heard the front door of the building open and close.
I slammed my door and locked it. Both locks. Then I pushed my heavy bookshelf in front of it for good measure.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Two million dollars. My father stole two million dollars.
And now dangerous men were coming after me.
I picked up the business card. It was completely black with silver writing: "Diamond Solutions. We solve problems."
Wait.
Diamond.
I ran to get Mom's journal. Flipped through the pages until I found what I was looking for.
There it was. In Mom's handwriting: "The Diamond Hearts—they call themselves problem solvers. They're actually criminals."
My stomach twisted. The men at my door weren't just random criminals my father had stolen from.
They were the Diamond Hearts. The same group Mom had been investigating. The same group that might have killed her.
But why would Dad steal from them? And why was he working for them in the first place?
Nothing made sense. For ten years, I thought Dad left because he was sad about my little brother. Because he couldn't handle the grief. Mom always said he was a coward who ran away.
But what if that wasn't true? What if Dad ran away because he stole two million dollars from the most dangerous people in town?
What if he ran away to protect us?
My phone buzzed. The power was still out, but my phone battery was working. Another text from the unknown number—the person who wanted to meet me at the Miller factory.
*Did they visit you yet?*
My blood ran cold. This person knew about the Diamond Hearts. Knew they'd come to my apartment.
I typed: *Who are you? How do you know about them?*
The response came fast: *I'm someone who can help you. Your mother trusted me. Tomorrow at noon. Don't be late. And Isabella—bring the journal.*
How did they know about the journal? I'd never told anyone.
Before I could respond, another text appeared: *P.S. The Diamond Hearts are watching your bookstore. Don't go back there tomorrow. They'll be waiting.*
I ran to my window and looked down at the street. The power had come back on. Streetlights glowed. Christmas decorations blinked on the buildings across the way.
And parked right in front of my bookstore was a black car that hadn't been there before.
Someone was sitting inside, watching my building.
I backed away from the window, my heart racing.
In less than an hour, I'd been threatened twice. Once about Mom. Once about Dad.
The Diamond Hearts were involved in both.
Tomorrow I'd meet the mysterious person at the factory. Maybe they'd have answers. Maybe it was a trap.
Either way, I was running out of options.
I grabbed Mom's journal and held it tight.
"What did you get us into, Mom?" I whispered. "What did Dad do?"
My phone buzzed one more time.
Another text. But this one wasn't from the unknown number.
It was from Dad.
From the father who'd been gone for ten years.
The message had just two words: *I'm sorry.*
Then my phone went dead—completely dead, even though it had been fully charged.
And outside my window, the black car's headlights turned on, pointing straight at my apartment.