My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance. / Chapter 86 / 191

Chapter 86 - The Montreal Safehouse

By three in the morning, Constable Tremblay had processed the initial emergency transfer. Because of the cross-border jurisdiction and the active federal warrants involving Julian Vance, the RCMP anti-corruption unit took custody of our transport.

An unmarked black SUV carried Lily and me north through the silent, snow-choked highways of southern Quebec toward Montreal. Lily slept soundly in the back seat, wrapped in a woolen RCMP blanket, her small head resting against my hip. Her hand was tucked securely inside my pocket, fingers curled around the plastic key fob of our old apartment—a reminder that a normal life had once existed, and that I would fight through hell to give it back to her.

We arrived at a nondescript brownstone in Montreal’s Plateau district just as the first gray light of New Year’s Day crept over the city’s copper steeples. The safehouse was staffed by two tactical officers in plain clothes.

"You have six hours before the Crown attorney files the formal seizure order for the bank vault," said Inspector Marcelle Roy, a sharp-featured woman in her late forties who met us in the kitchen. She set two steaming mugs of black coffee on the butcher-block island. "Julian Vance’s jet landed at Dorval forty minutes ago. We have units watching the airfield, but he slipped past the gate in a registered diplomatic vehicle. He has connections with the old corporate lobby here."

"The vault belongs to Claire," I said, sliding the brass key from my pocket onto the wood. "Key SL-7702. What bank is it?"

"Banque Laurentienne, on Rue Sainte-Catherine," Roy answered, tapping a surveillance dossier on the counter. "It’s a legacy safety deposit branch established under the old banking laws of the seventies. It requires only the key and a handwritten passphrase. No digital biometric, no photo ID. Claire Vance established it on December 24, 1999."

"The day Lily was born," I whispered.

"Precisely," Roy said. "Which means Julian Vance doesn't have the legal authority to open it—unless he produces the original corporate power of attorney he stole from your mother’s safe tonight. If he gets to the bank manager before we secure a judicial seal, the contents are gone."

I looked through the open doorway into the small bedroom where Lily lay sleeping under a heavy quilt. Her dark hair was fanned out across the white pillow, completely oblivious to the war being fought over her name.

"I’m going with you," I said to Roy.

"Madame Vance, that is against standard protocol—"

"I am the only person who knows Claire's handwriting," I cut her off, my voice steady, hardened by the last forty-eight hours of terror. "I lived with Eleanor for twenty-five years. I know how my family codes their secrets. You send three tacticians into that vault and Julian's lawyers will tie you up in jurisdictional injunctions for six months. I walk in as the direct heir, with the physical key, before the banking floor opens for holiday emergency access."

Roy studied my face for several long seconds. She saw no panic there. The terrified woman who had packed her bags in tears on Christmas evening was gone. In her place was a mother whose child had been hunted across the ice.