Tracing the name Silas Thorne on the screen, Elara's brow furrowed. "He's not exactly public-facing," she muttered, clicking through a labyrinth of old corporate registries and archived news articles. Ronan leaned over her shoulder, his gaze fixed on the glowing monitor. "My father kept a tight circle. Silas was a close associate, handled some… sensitive projects back in the day." Finding sensitive associates proved difficult. Elara’s fingers flew across the keyboard, a flurry of precise movements. She cross-referenced the coded message with old employee rosters, then filtered by termination dates aligning with Caldwell’s father's increased involvement. Minutes stretched into a tense silence. A faint smile touched Elara’s lips. "Got him. Or at least, a last known address. It's an old apartment building in the outer district, mostly residential, low-income area." Ronan straightened. "Let's go. Now." Time was a luxury they couldn't afford. Caldwell’s legal team was already moving, preparing their public assault. Driving through the city, Ronan felt the familiar weight of responsibility pressing down. He needed Silas Thorne. Needed him to speak. Elara watched the city lights blur, her own determination a fierce counterpoint to Ronan's quiet intensity. She knew what this meant, not just for Ronan, but for his family's legacy. Soon, the gleaming towers of the financial district gave way to older, grittier neighborhoods. Apartment blocks, some with peeling paint, lined the narrow streets. Ronan parked the SUV a block away, preferring to approach on foot. Anonymity was their best bet. They walked down a dimly lit alley, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the distant drone of city traffic. Number 17B. The address led them to a weathered brick building. Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of stale cooking and disinfectant. A single flickering fluorescent bulb cast long, dancing shadows. Locating apartment 17B, Ronan hesitated for a breath. This was it. The key. Knocking softly, he waited. No answer. He tried again, a little louder. Rustling sounds came from within. A small click. The door opened a sliver. An older man, thin and wiry, peered out. His eyes, a weary blue, were wide with immediate suspicion. "Silas Thorne?" Ronan asked, keeping his voice low and calm. Silas’s eyes darted between Ronan and Elara, then narrowed. "Who are you? What do you want?" "My name is Ronan Vance. This is Elara Maxwell," Ronan introduced, pushing his business card through the gap. "We need to talk about my father, Alistair Vance. And about Edward Caldwell." The name Caldwell made Silas flinch. His grip tightened on the doorframe, knuckles white. "I have nothing to say to you," Silas said, his voice a gravelly whisper. He tried to close the door. Ronan quickly wedged his foot in. "Please, Mr. Thorne. This isn't a social call. My family's legacy, my company, is at stake. You have information that could help." Elara stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm. "We know about the coded message, Mr. Thorne. We know you were privy to certain dealings between Alistair Vance and Caldwell Senior. The subsidiary trust." Silas’s face paled. He stared at Elara, then back at Ronan, his gaze filled with a palpable fear. "You shouldn't be here," he choked out, his eyes darting down the hall. "It's not safe." Ronan pressed on. "Caldwell is trying to seize control of Vance Industries. He's making false accusations, twisting history. You can set the record straight." "You don't understand," Silas whispered, his voice trembling. He opened the door a bit wider, inviting them in, but his posture was that of a man trapped. Ronan and Elara stepped into the cramped, sparsely furnished apartment. Stacks of old newspapers and books lined the walls. A faint smell of dust and old coffee hung in the air. Silas closed the door, locking it with a heavy click, then turned to face them, his hands shaking. "I can't help you," he insisted, wringing his hands. "You don't know what kind of man Edward Caldwell is." "We have a pretty good idea," Elara said, her voice steady. "He's ruthless. But the truth is more powerful." Silas shook his head, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Truth won't protect my family." Ronan took a step closer, his voice earnest. "Your family? What does Caldwell have to do with your family?" Silas swallowed hard, his eyes wide with a desperate fear. "He found me. Months ago. Said if I ever spoke a word about anything I saw, anything I knew…" His voice caught, a dry, rasping sound. "He threatened them. My daughter. My grandchildren. He said he’d make sure they disappeared. Made it very clear he had eyes everywhere. Said he'd already proven he could do it to others. I believed him. I still do. He's already made threats, Ronan. My life, and theirs, is already in danger." He slumped onto a worn armchair, defeated. Ronan and Elara exchanged a horrified look. Caldwell had already made his move. Silas Thorne was not just a reluctant witness; he was a terrified hostage.

Chapter 44: The Witness