Page 49 of Rampage

I nod, my heart racing. "This might be our only chance to get it."

Reid returns to his call, speaking rapidly to his father. I catch fragments—"opportunity," "evidence," "time-sensitive." When he hangs up, his expression is resolute.

"My father's calling an emergency meeting. One hour." He sits beside me on the bed, taking my hands in his. "Lily, I need to ask something difficult of you."

"You want me to go back there," I say, already knowing what he's thinking. "To show you where the evidence is hidden."

His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "We could send someone else in, but they wouldn't know exactly what to look for or where to find it."

The thought of returning to that house, of walking through those rooms where I experienced so much pain, makes my stomach churn. But the possibility of finally having concrete evidence against Frank, of potentially helping the other girls he abused, outweighs my fear.

"I'll do it," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. "If it means stopping him for good, I'll go back."

Reid's expression is a mix of pride and concern. "You won't be alone. I'll be with you every step of the way, and we'll have backup nearby. In and out, as quickly as possible."

I nod, already mentally preparing myself for what lies ahead. "When?"

"Tonight," Reid says decisively. "We need to move while we know he's in custody. The club will handle the logistics—transportation, surveillance, everything."

He stands, pulling me gently to my feet. "But first, breakfast. You need your strength."

In the kitchen, Reid moves with efficient grace, making coffee and preparing a simple meal of eggs and toast. I sit at the island, watching him, trying to focus on the present moment rather than the mission ahead.

"You're sure about this?" he asks, sliding a plate in front of me. "No one would blame you if you changed your mind."

"I'm sure," I say, though my stomach knots at the thought. "It feels right, somehow. Facing my demons on my own terms, with you beside me."

Reid's eyes soften. "You're braver than you give yourself credit for, Lily."

After breakfast, we shower and dress. Reid packs a small bag with essentials, including the prepaid phone he gave me and a change of clothes. The preparations feel surreal, like we're planning a weekend trip rather than a covert operation to gather evidence against my abuser.

The drive to the clubhouse is quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts. Reid's hand rests on my thigh, a comforting weight that grounds me when my mind threatens to spiral into anxiety.

When we arrive, the parking lot is already filled with motorcycles. Reid helps me from the truck, his hand steady at the small of my back as we approach the entrance.

Inside, the atmosphere is charged with purpose. Members stand in small groups, talking in low voices that fall silent as we enter. Lane approaches immediately, his expression grave.

"Lily," he greets me with a respectful nod. "Reid's filled me in on the situation. Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?"

"Yes," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "I need to."

Lane studies me for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied with what he sees. "We've been planning for something like this, though we didn't expect the opportunity to come so soon."

He leads us to the meeting table where Aiden and several other members wait. Maps and blueprints are spread across the surface—satellite images of my hometown, street layouts, and what appears to be the floor plan of Frank's house.

"How did you get these?" I ask, stunned by the thoroughness of their preparations.

"Better not to ask," Aiden says with a grim smile. "Let's just say we have resources."

Reid pulls out a chair for me at the table, and I sit, trying to absorb the enormity of what we're planning.

"Frank Dawson is currently in custody," Lane explains to the assembled men. "Bail hearing isn't until tomorrow morning. That gives us a narrow window to enter the property, locate the evidence, and get out without detection."

"What exactly are we looking for?" Mason asks, leaning forward.

All eyes turn to me. I swallow hard, uncomfortable with the attention but determined to be useful.

"A metal lockbox," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "About this big." I indicate the dimensions with my hands. "It's hidden in his home office behind a false panel in the bookcase. The third shelf from the bottom, behind his law books."

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