Read Chapter 25: The Hidden Vault

The warehouse loomed against the bruised pre-dawn sky, all corrugated steel and faded cosmetics advertisements peeling from its flanks. Camille killed the engine and let the Renault coast the last fifty meters into the shadow of a loading dock.

Étienne was already out, scanning the perimeter with the flat, practiced gaze of a man who'd done this before. She joined him at the fence line, her breath misting in the cold.

"Blueprints said maintenance entrance on the west side," he murmured, pointing. "Security's a joke on paper. Which means it won't be in practice."

They moved along the fence until they found the service gate, its chain looped with a cheap lock that yielded to Étienne's picks in under a minute. The yard beyond smelled of diesel and damp cardboard, and Camille's heart hammered a rhythm she refused to acknowledge.

Inside, the warehouse was a cathedral of industrial shelving—pallets of unsold lipstick and moisturizer rising like monuments to vanity. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in an anemic hum. Camille pulled out her phone, watching the tracker's signal pulse steadily somewhere beneath their feet.

"It's not here," she said. "The signal's coming from below."

Étienne nodded, already moving toward a freight elevator at the far end. The cage was rusted, its control panel dented. He pried the panel open with a knife, revealing a tangle of wires and a manual override. "They went to the trouble of hiding the elevator but not the wiring."

"Arrogance," Camille said. "Petiot's signature."

The elevator shuddered downward, the air growing cooler, damper. When the cage finally ground to a stop, they emerged into a long concrete corridor lined with reinforced steel doors. Each one bore a keypad lock, and the walls were studded with motion sensors that blinked in patient crimson.

"Three doors," Étienne said, counting. "Blueprints showed one."

"Petiot updated the plans." Camille approached the first door, running her fingers along the keypad's edges. "He's careful. Methodical. But methodical men are predictable."

She pulled a thin probe from her coat and inserted it into the keypad's service port, her fingers working the exposed circuit board with practiced precision. Nine seconds later, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Crates. Rows upon rows of wooden crates, each stamped with a forged customs seal and a false provenance. Camille stepped inside and pried open the nearest lid with her crowbar, her breath catching as she peeled back the protective wrapping.

A Monet. Not the one from the vault—a different one, smaller, its brushwork luminous even in the cold fluorescent light. She closed the crate and moved to the next. A Degas. A Cézanne. A Van Gogh that made her throat tighten with the sheer audacity of it.

"They're all here," she breathed. "The originals. He was staging them for distribution."

Étienne was already at the second door, his picks working the lock. "Keep counting later. We need the audit trail and Élodie."

The second room held documents—ledgers, digital storage drives, and a wall of filing cabinets that smelled of must and fraud. Camille ran her finger along the spines of the folders, stopping at one labeled "MOREAU ACCOUNT."

Her father's name. She pulled it from the shelf, her hand steady despite the cold rushing through her veins. The folder was thick with correspondence, bank transfers, and handwritten notes she had no time to read. She stuffed it into her jacket, the weight of it pressing against her ribs like an accusation.

"Camille." Étienne's voice came from the corridor, sharp and low. "Someone's been here."

She emerged to find him crouching by the third door, which was already ajar. The lock had been disabled from the inside, its casing cracked and hanging loose. Inside, the room was darker than the others—windowless, with a single bulb swinging from a wire overhead.

The far wall was lined with cages.

Camille's stomach dropped. They were large enough for a person, their bars freshly installed, and in the third one, a woman lay curled on a thin mattress, her blonde hair matted and her hands wrapped in heavy restraints.

"Élodie."

The woman stirred at the sound of her name, blinking against the light. Her pupils were enormous, black pools swallowing her irises, and her movements were molasses-slow as she struggled to sit up.

"Camille?" Her voice cracked. "No—you have to go. He'll be back."

Étienne was already working on the cage door, his lockpicks finding the mechanism. It took longer than the others—this lock was newer, better—but eventually the door swung open with a groan.

Camille dropped to her knees beside her friend, cupping her face in her hands. Élodie's skin was cold, clammy, and her eyes kept drifting out of focus.

"What did they give you?"

"Something to keep me quiet." Élodie's laugh was a hollow rasp. "They didn't want me telling stories." She gripped Camille's wrist with surprising strength. "He killed your father. Petiot. He didn't fall—he was pushed."

Camille's pulse stuttered. "What are you talking about?"

"Your father was an investigator too. He found the ring—the original ring, before Petiot took over." Élodie's eyes finally focused, sharp with urgency. "He hid documents. Evidence. He gave them to someone, told them to hold them for you. I don't know where. But the locket—your locket—it's not just a pendant. It opens. There's a compartment."

Camille touched her collar instinctively, where the locket had hung for years. She'd traded it to the broker weeks ago to pay off her debt—she'd been so certain the debt was the key to everything.

"The broker," she said, her mouth dry. "I gave it away."

Élodie's face crumpled. "No. God, Camille, that document trail—it's the only thing that can tie Petiot to your father's murder. Without it, he walks."

Étienne helped Élodie to her feet, her legs buckling beneath her. He caught her, his arm around her waist, and looked at Camille with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"That broker," he said slowly. "Where does he keep his acquisitions?"

"A safe deposit box at the Credit Lyonnais on Rue de Rivoli." Camille's mind was racing, layering timelines and risks. "But we're wanted. We can't exactly walk in and ask."

"The contact I mentioned," Étienne said. "The one who owes me a favor. He works the night shift at the bank's maintenance department."

Camille stared at him. "You're telling me your contact is a janitor?"

"I'm telling you he has keys to every floor of that building." Étienne adjusted his grip on Élodie. "But we need to move. Petiot said he'd check on her at dawn, and that's less than an hour away."

Then Élodie stiffened, her eyes going wide and focused on the corridor behind them. "Wait. He wasn't lying when he said he'd check."

The sound of footsteps echoed down the concrete hall. Multiple sets, moving fast, accompanied by the unmistakable click of a slide being racked.

Petiot's voice carried ahead of him, calm and almost pleasant. "Miss Moreau. I was hoping you'd come to say goodbye to your friend."

Camille looked at the folder pressing against her chest, at the cages behind her, at the vault of stolen masterpieces waiting in the next room. They had minutes, maybe less, and no way out but the way they'd come.

She looked at Étienne, and in his eyes she saw the same calculation she was making.

"On three," she whispered.