Poor Girl Who Collects Scrap Returns Suitcase of Money to Billionaire — A Secret Is Revealed...

Julian’s blood ran cold.

He looked at Arthur, who was already running a trace on Victor Vance’s phone signal.

"The signal is coming from the Belle Isle Bridge," Arthur whispered, his fingers flying over his tablet. "He’s there, Julian. He’s got a rental van parked on the bridge."

Julian’s mind raced. Victor had realized the plan was falling apart. He had kept Laya and Evelyn as a backup plan, a secondary leverage to ensure his escape. He had taken them from the hospital before Arthur’s security team could secure them.

"Victor," Julian said into the phone, his voice steady, his eyes fixed on Clara, who was now holding Arthur’s hand. "The money is yours. The three million. I have it right here. Let them go."

"Meet me on the bridge," Victor said. "No police. If I see a single headlight other than yours, I press the release. The car goes over. You have ten minutes."

Julian hung up. He looked at Clara, then at Arthur.

"Arthur, take Clara to the safe house," Julian said. "Now."

"Daddy, where are you going?" Clara asked, her small hand reaching for his.

"I have to go save the girl who saved your inheritance, Clara," Julian said, his voice filled with a deep, solemn promise. "She’s my friend. And she needs my help."

Julian grabbed the black suitcase, ran down the stairs, and jumped back into the SUV. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, the tires screaming against the ice as he headed toward the Belle Isle Bridge.

The bridge was a long, concrete ribbon that stretched across the dark, frozen Detroit River. The wind was howling, whipping up white caps of ice against the bridge pillars.

At the center of the span sat a white rental van, its hazard lights blinking in the dark. Behind it was a small, beat-up sedan—Evelyn Monroe’s car, which Victor’s men had towed from the 14th Street tenement. Inside the sedan, Laya was pressed against the glass of the passenger window, her green eyes wide with terror as she looked at the black water below. Her mother, Evelyn, was slumped in the driver’s seat, unconscious but breathing.

Julian parked his SUV fifty yards away. He stepped out into the freezing wind, carrying the black suitcase.

"Victor!" Julian shouted, his voice carrying over the wind. "I’m here! I have the money!"

Victor Vance stepped out of the rental van. He wore a heavy coat, his face twisted in a desperate, mad grin. In his hand, he held a wireless detonator—a device connected to the electronic winch that was holding the sedan’s bumper to the bridge railing.

"Toss the suitcase, Julian!" Victor shouted. "Slide it across the ice!"

Julian looked at Laya in the car. She was crying now, her small hands tapping against the glass.

"Let them go first, Victor!" Julian demanded. "The money is yours! You have no use for them!"

"The moment I have the suitcase in my hand, I release the winch!" Victor screamed. "Slide it, Julian! Or they go over now!"

Julian took a deep breath. He looked at the ice on the bridge floor. He knew Victor was lying. The moment Victor had the money, he would destroy the evidence—including the witnesses.