The hospital rang me and said a little boy had named me as the person to call in an emergency. I laughed because it sounded absurd and said, “That’s not possible. I’m 32, single, and I don’t have a child.” But when they told me he had been begging for me, I drove over… and the moment I entered his hospital room, my whole world went still...

The Clackamas River was swollen with spring runoff, its dark waters churning violently against the rocky banks as we emerged from the tree line near McIver Park. The boat launch was completely deserted, a wide concrete ramp disappearing into the black torrent.

The coordinates on the watch face pointed directly toward an old, disused park ranger station—a small stone structure built during the New Deal era, now covered in moss and half-submerged by the high water line.

"Stay close," I told Noah, my boots splashing through six inches of freezing river water as we approached the heavy oak door of the station. The padlock was rusted through, broken long ago by vandals or time.

Inside, the room smelled of river mud and rotting wood. I used the remaining battery on my phone to illuminate the space. In the center of the room sat a heavy iron utility box affixed to the stone wall, intended for river current monitoring equipment.

I examined the lock on the utility box. It didn't have a keyhole. It had a classic mechanical combination dial—the kind used on heavy bank safes from the mid-century.

"The time, Noah," I said, my heart pounding. "What was the exact position of the hands?"

"Four, thirty-five," he said instantly.

I grabbed the dial, turning it right to 4, left past zero to 35, then right again. Nothing happened. The handle remained locked and immovable.

"Think, Emily," I muttered to myself, rubbing my temples. Megan wouldn't make it that simple. A combination lock required three numbers, not two.

I looked at the watch face again, studying the phosphorescent glow. The second hand wasn't moving, but it was frozen precisely on the number twelve.

"Twelve," I whispered.

I reset the dial. Right to 4. Left to 35. Right to 12.

With a heavy, satisfying clack, the internal tumblers released. I pulled the heavy iron door open.

Inside, resting on a dry shelf of lined plastic, was a modern, military-grade hard-shell case. Next to it lay a sealed waterproof envelope with my name written across the front in Megan's sharp, elegant handwriting.

I tore the envelope open, my fingers trembling as I pulled out a single sheet of paper.

Emily, the note read. If you're reading this, it means I couldn't get away from them, and Noah found you. I'm sorry to drag you into this nightmare, but you're the only person in the world who knows the truth about what happened twelve years ago. The people hunting us aren't just corporate executives. They are funded by Raymond Vance—the federal prosecutor who helped cover up the terminal fire that killed my father. The hard case contains the complete financial ledger of Apex Logistics, showing every bribe paid to Vance's office over the last decade. It's the only thing that can destroy him. But they have the decryption key. They took it when they captured me. You have to find the third eye, Emily. Remember the summer of 2014. Remember the pier.