Carly Morgan hadn’t seen Trent in two years — not since she won the first round of the inheritance case against her estranged family.
Not since her lawyer, Evan Hael, told her she might finally be free of the people who left her to rot when she was sixteen.
And now he wanted to talk?
The text had come late.
Trent: Dinner? No drama. Just want to clear the air. Hotel bar at Regent Arms, 8 p.m.
The Regent Arms. A forgotten place with yellowing wallpaper and weak martinis, wedged between a closed-down strip club and a pawn shop. The kind of place where secrets go to die.
Carly sat in her car outside, windshield wipers squeaking a slow rhythm. The rain was unrelenting, coating the streets in a shimmering film that reflected every neon sign like a bad dream.
Her gut twisted. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
She told herself it was just a conversation. But deep down, she knew better. Trent never reached out unless he wanted something. And her family never played fair.
Still, curiosity gripped her throat like a hand she couldn’t shake. She grabbed her pepper spray, slid it into her coat pocket, and stepped into the night.
§§§§§
Trent looked the same, only more drained. His skin was pale, his cheeks hollowed out, hair cropped shorter than before. But the cocky smirk still clung to his lips like residue.
He wore a faux leather jacket that glistened under the low amber lights of the bar, and his hands twitched when they weren’t wrapped around his drink.
“You look good,” he said, barely glancing up from his whiskey.
“You don’t,” she replied, sliding into the booth.
He laughed — forced, hollow. “Guess I deserve that.”
The conversation sputtered on. He talked in circles. Brought up old memories like dog-eared pages of a story she never wanted to reread.
His eyes flicked to the hallway behind her too often. Sweat beaded at his temples.
Carly picked up on it quickly. The way his left foot tapped under the table. How he kept touching his wrist — a nervous tic she remembered from years ago. He did it when he was hiding something.
“You okay, Trent? You’re twitchier than a junkie in detox.”
He smiled weakly. “Just… nervous, I guess.”
He wasn’t lying. But he wasn’t telling the truth either.
And then she noticed something else: the bartender. Watching. Not mixing drinks. Not wiping down the counter. Just watching her.
Her phone buzzed. A blocked number. She didn’t answer, but the voicemail notification popped up immediately.
§§§§§
Upstairs in Room 609, Brother Cain lined the floor with plastic sheets. His hands moved with the grace of ritual.
He wore black rubber gloves and a crisp white apron, the kind you’d find in a butcher shop. Blades rested on a tray by the bed, gleaming under the flickering light.
He hummed something off-key — a twisted nursery rhyme — as he arranged his tools: scalpels, bone saw, garrote wire.
He was a butcher by trade, a sadist by devotion. Paid by “The Clean-Up Crew” — an underground cult that believed in sacrificial debt collection.
Carly, to them, was a problem wrapped in a payout: the last obstacle in their grab for a multi-million dollar inheritance her late mother had left under strict conditions.
Evan Hael, her lawyer, was supposed to be her ally. But money always talked louder than loyalty. He’d filed the necessary motions, rigged the right judges.
The plan was airtight — until someone got cold feet.
§§§§§
Carly stepped outside the bar to breathe. The air was thick with diesel and old rain. Trash stuck to the sidewalk like scabs. Thunder rolled low above the city.
She hit play on the voicemail.
A voice. Whispering. Desperate.
“Carly, you’re not safe. They’re setting you up. Trent. Your family. Evan. They paid someone — he’s in Room 609. Leave. Now.”
She froze. Her breath hitched.
From the lobby desk, the bartender’s voice called out, too casually: “Miss, your room key?”
Room key?
She turned. He was holding a plastic key card. Room 609. Smiling.
She bolted.
§§§§§
Officer Tasha Redd had been undercover for six months. The cult called itself “The Path.” They wore clean suits, quoted ancient texts, and dealt in organs, guns, and people.
She had wormed her way in under the guise of being “willing” — but her soul paid for every second.
She was the one who tipped off Carly.
From her unmarked car across the street, she watched as Carly sprinted from the hotel lobby, panic in her every step. A signal. It was time.
She radioed in.
“Suspect in position. Room 609. Go. Go. Go.”
§§§§§
Carly ran to her car. The door jammed. She turned to see Trent following, shouting, “Carly, wait!”
She grabbed her pepper spray and aimed.
He stopped short, hands up.
“I didn’t know! I swear! They — my dad owed them money. They threatened my sister. I had no choice!”
The betrayal burned her bones.
Then the screams started, high above them. From the sixth floor.
The SWAT team stormed the building. Through the windows of Room 609, flashes of light. Shouting. Then gunfire.
Down the alley, a man burst through the fire escape — blood on his gloves, knife still in hand.
Brother Cain.
He ran straight toward Carly.
But Tasha was faster. One shot. Right through his chest. He dropped like a rag doll, face landing in a puddle of filth and neon.
Carly stood frozen, soaked in rain and adrenaline.
“You okay?” Tasha asked, lowering her weapon.
Carly looked at her, eyes wide. “Not even close.”
§§§§§
Two weeks later, Carly sat across from Evan Hael. He’d been arrested the morning after the bust — caught bribing a judge and destroying evidence.
She visited the courthouse to testify, not to gloat.
Evan’s face was sunken now. The weight of guilt—or maybe just the collapse of a golden life.
“You could’ve had it all, Carly,” he muttered, chained to his seat.
“I do,” she replied, standing. “I have my life. That’s more than I can say for you.”
The cult crumbled in weeks. Arrests across five states.
Carly’s inheritance was upheld by the court, this time free of tampered documents and dirty hands.
She donated a chunk to an anti-trafficking foundation. Hired real lawyers. Hired Tasha as private security.
But she never forgot the look in Trent’s eyes. The way her family signed her death warrant with polite smiles and expensive pens.
She bought a farmhouse upstate. No visitors. No press. Just peace.
And a lockbox with a gun and one laminated card: Room 609.
Because peace, she learned, was earned. And protected.
The Clean-Up Crew had come for her.
But someone finally cleaned them up.
