Chapter 7: Midnight at the Docks

Midnight settled over Brooklyn like a heavy blanket.

Fog rolled across the abandoned Navy Yard docks, swallowing rusted shipping containers and broken cranes in pale gray shadows.

The East River lapped quietly against the rotting wooden pilings.

June stepped out of a black SUV.

She wore a dark coat and carried a small duffel bag containing one hundred thousand dollars in cash.

Vera stood beside the driver's door.

"I still think this is a terrible idea," Vera muttered.

"The man vanished for ten years and suddenly calls you after seeing the news? This feels like a trap."

"It might be," June admitted.

"But if Arthur really has proof about my parents, I can't ignore it."

Vera sighed.

"At least let me come with you."

"No."

"June—"

"If something goes wrong, I need someone outside who can call for help."

Vera looked unhappy but finally nodded.

"Ten minutes."

"If you don't come back in ten minutes, I'm calling every cop in New York."

June managed a small smile.

"Deal."

She turned and walked into the fog.

The abandoned docks were eerily quiet.

Only the sound of distant water and creaking metal broke the silence.

Her phone flashlight illuminated the path ahead.

"Arthur?" she called.

"It's June."

No response.

She moved deeper into the shipyard.

Suddenly she spotted a figure leaning against an old warehouse wall.

"Arthur?"

The man staggered forward.

June's breath caught.

Arthur looked terrible.

His gray hair was disheveled.

His face was bruised.

One eye was swollen nearly shut.

"Miss June," he rasped.

"You came."

"What happened to you?"

"They found me."

"Who?"

Arthur glanced nervously into the darkness.

"The people who killed your parents."

June's pulse quickened.

"Tell me everything."

Arthur reached inside his coat.

For one terrifying second, June thought he might have a weapon.

Instead, he pulled out a thick manila envelope.

"The proof is here."

"Photographs."

"Maintenance reports."

"Copies of financial transfers."

"I kept them hidden all these years."

June accepted the envelope.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

"Why wait until now?"

Arthur laughed bitterly.

"Because I was a coward."

"Your father trusted me."

"And I spent ten years hiding."

"I'm sorry."

Before June could respond, a loud crack echoed through the fog.

Arthur's body jerked violently.

For a moment, neither of them understood what happened.

Then blood spread across the front of his jacket.

"Arthur!"

A gunshot.

Someone had shot him.

Arthur collapsed into June's arms.

"Run," he gasped.

"They're here."

"Arthur! Stay with me!"

"Richard..."

Blood bubbled from his lips.

"Your uncle knows everything."

"The Comptons helped him."

"Don't trust—"

Another gunshot shattered the air.

The bullet struck the concrete beside June.

Instinct took over.

She grabbed the envelope and sprinted toward the river.

Behind her, footsteps thundered through the fog.

Someone was chasing her.

"June!"

Vera's voice echoed from the distance.

"June!"

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness.

More gunshots followed.

June ducked behind a shipping container.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

The envelope was clutched tightly against her chest.

Police sirens suddenly erupted nearby.

Red and blue lights flashed through the fog.

The footsteps stopped.

The attackers disappeared into the darkness.

Within seconds, officers flooded the docks.

Vera reached June first.

"Oh my God!"

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

June looked back toward where Arthur had fallen.

Paramedics were already rushing toward him.

But she knew.

The old driver was gone.

Arthur had spent ten years hiding from the truth.

And it had finally caught him.

Vera noticed the envelope.

"What is that?"

June slowly looked down.

The thick folder was stained with Arthur's blood.

"The reason someone just tried to kill me."

Back at the penthouse, neither woman slept.

The envelope sat on the dining table.

Like a bomb waiting to explode.

Finally, June opened it.

The first photograph showed her father's car.

The hood was raised.

A timestamp marked the image.

One day before the crash.

The second photograph made her blood run cold.

Standing beside the vehicle was Richard Erickson.

And next to him stood a younger man.

The image was blurry.

But one detail remained perfectly visible.

The Compton family signet ring on his hand.

June stared at the photograph.

Her breathing slowed.

Her grief hardened.

Then transformed into something far more dangerous.

For years she thought she was fighting a cheating husband.

Now she understood the truth.

She wasn't fighting for revenge anymore.

She was fighting for justice.

And whoever murdered her parents had just made a fatal mistake.

They had failed to kill the last Erickson.

June carefully closed the envelope.

Then she looked out across Manhattan.

"You should have left me alone," she whispered.

"Now I'm coming for all of you."