Chapter 4 - The Child’s Drawing
The black sedan tore through the slick, rain-soaked streets of the French Quarter, heading toward the impoverished outskirts of the city.
“How old is he?” Adrian demanded, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
“He’s eight,” Claire said, her voice shaking. “Evelyn raised him after her daughter died. When Evelyn got sick, she begged me to take him. That’s why I needed the money, Adrian. That’s why I risked everything to cook for you.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. For three weeks, he had thought Claire was just an ambitious chef. He had no idea she was carrying the weight of a child’s life on her shoulders.
“If Marcus gets to him…” Claire couldn't finish the sentence.
“He won't,” Adrian swore, pushing the car over eighty miles an hour.
They skidded to a halt outside a crumbling, two-story apartment building. The streetlights were completely burned out.
Claire leapt from the car before it was fully in park.
She ran up the rotting wooden stairs to apartment 4B.
The front door was wide open.
The lock had been completely shattered.
“No,” Claire sobbed, rushing inside. “Leo! Leo!”
The tiny apartment was trashed. The couch was overturned. The kitchen cabinets had been emptied, cheap plates shattered across the linoleum floor.
Adrian came in behind her, his gun drawn, clearing the rooms with terrifying efficiency.
“Clear,” Adrian said softly. He looked at Claire, his eyes full of pity. “He’s gone, Claire.”
Claire dropped to her knees in the center of the living room, a broken sob escaping her throat. She had promised Evelyn she would protect the boy. She had failed.
Adrian crouched beside her. “We will find him. Marcus is using him for leverage to get the notebook. He won't hurt him yet.”
As Adrian spoke, his eyes caught something under the overturned coffee table.
It was a piece of crumpled construction paper.
Adrian reached out and pulled it free.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on cheap paper.
But it wasn't a drawing of a family, or a house, or a dog.
It was a drawing of a massive, terrifyingly detailed iron gate with a weeping angel perched on top.
Adrian’s breath stopped in his throat.
“Claire,” Adrian whispered, his voice trembling. “Where did Leo see this gate?”
Claire wiped her eyes, looking at the drawing. “He draws it all the time. Evelyn used to take him there when he was very small. She said it was where their real family slept. Why?”
Adrian slowly stood up, the paper shaking in his massive hands.
“Because this is the gate to my family’s private mausoleum in St. Louis Cemetery,” Adrian said.
Claire stared at him, confused. “Why would Evelyn take her grandson to your family’s tomb?”
Adrian looked down at the leather notebook still clutched in Claire’s hands.
“Give me the notebook,” he demanded gently.
Claire handed it to him. Adrian flipped past the recipes, past the death certificate, all the way to the very back cover.
He pulled out his pocket knife and sliced the thick leather lining of the back cover open.
Another piece of paper slipped out.
It was a faded, thirty-year-old photograph.
In the picture, two young girls stood side by side in front of a bakery, covered in flour, laughing.
One was Isabella. Adrian’s mother.
The other was Evelyn.
“They weren't just employer and cook,” Adrian whispered, a tear slipping down his hardened face. “Evelyn was my mother’s sister. My aunt.”
Claire’s mind reeled. The reversal shifted everything she knew.
“Which means,” Adrian continued, looking down at the drawing of the cemetery gates, “Leo isn't just your adopted son. He’s my cousin. He’s the last blood relative I have left in this world.”
Suddenly, the burner phone in Adrian’s pocket vibrated.
He pulled it out and answered.
Marcus’s voice echoed through the speaker, cruel and triumphant.
“Did you find the open door, Adrian?”
“If you touch one hair on his head, Marcus, I will peel your skin off,” Adrian promised, a demonic rage entering his voice.
“Bring the notebook to the old warehouse on Pier 9,” Marcus said. “Come alone. And Adrian? Tell the waitress she’s fired.”
The line went dead.
Claire stood up, her fear replaced by a sudden, burning anger.
“We aren't giving him the notebook,” Claire said, grabbing a heavy cast-iron skillet from the ruined kitchen.
May you like
Adrian looked at her, surprised. “Claire, this is my world. Not yours. You stay here.”
“He is my son,” Claire fired back, her eyes blazing. “And Evelyn was my family before she was yours. We are going to that pier. And we are going to serve Marcus his last meal.”
