Chapter 2 - THE FACE IN THE SECOND PHOTOGRAPH
I stared at the second photograph in Lucy’s small, trembling hand, my heart slamming against my ribs with sickening force.
The woman standing beside Martin Hale in the picture was smiling. She wore a tailored white designer coat, and her blonde hair was perfectly styled. Her hand rested comfortably on Martin’s arm. They looked like partners.
It was Victoria. My wife.
The woman who had wept on my shoulder at Emily’s memorial service. The woman who had packed away Emily’s toys with me, whispering that we had to be strong for each other. The woman I had been married to for twenty-six years.
“Lucy,” I choked out, my voice sounding like broken glass. “Where did your mommy get this picture?”
“She took it a long time ago,” Lucy whispered, pulling her thin coat tighter around herself. “She said she hid in the bushes when the bad lady came to pay the bad man. Mommy says the blonde lady is the one who wanted us to disappear.”
A wave of profound, suffocating betrayal crashed over me. Victoria hadn't just comforted a grieving father. She had orchestrated the grief. She had paid Martin to kidnap my eight-year-old daughter so she could secure her place—and her future inheritance—as the undisputed queen of the Anderson empire.
And I had funded it all. I had paid Martin millions in "investigative fees" for two decades, money he was likely splitting with my own wife.
“Lucy, we have to go,” I said, standing up with a newfound, terrifying clarity. My sadness was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating rage. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed my head of private security, Marcus. He was a former Marine who answered only to me, not Victoria.
“Marcus,” I said the moment he picked up. “Bring the armored SUV to the steakhouse on 5th. Right now. We have a situation, and it involves Victoria and Martin Hale.”
“Copy that, boss. Two minutes,” Marcus replied, his tone instantly shifting to tactical readiness.
I looked down at the little girl holding my hand. “I’m going to take you to your mommy. Show me where you live.”
Lucy guided me out of the restaurant and into the freezing Dallas night. When Marcus pulled up in the black SUV, I opened the heavy door and helped Lucy inside. She stared at the plush leather seats and the tinted windows in awe.
“Are you a king, Grandpa?” she asked innocently.
“No, sweetheart,” I said, my jaw tightening as I buckled her in. “But tonight, I’m going to ruin one.”
Lucy directed Marcus to a decaying part of East Dallas. We pulled into the parking lot of a crumbling, neon-lit motel called The Starlight. The concrete was cracked, and the air smelled of stale beer and exhaust.
“Room 42,” Lucy pointed. “On the bottom.”
I didn't wait for Marcus to open my door. I threw it open and ran toward the room, my expensive overcoat flapping in the wind. I reached the door and knocked.
“Emily!” I called out, my voice cracking with desperate hope. “Emily, it’s Dad!”
Silence.
I knocked harder. “Emily, please! Open the door!”
Marcus stepped up beside me. He didn't knock. He pressed his hand against the wood, felt the loose frame, and kicked the door right below the handle. The cheap lock splintered, and the door swung inward.
The room was destroyed.
A single lamp lay shattered on the floor. The thin mattress was half-dragged off the box spring. Clothes were scattered everywhere. But Emily was nowhere to be found.
“Mommy!” Lucy screamed, running past me into the room.
I grabbed her before she could step in the center of the floor. Because right beside the overturned nightstand was a smear of fresh, dark blood.
“No,” I breathed, the nightmare from twenty-four years ago repeating itself in real time.
Marcus knelt by the blood, examining it. “It’s fresh, Mr. Anderson. Less than an hour old.”
Lucy began to sob hysterically, burying her face in my leg. I picked her up, holding her tightly to my chest.
“Grandpa, the bad man took her!” she cried. “He said he would!”
I scanned the wrecked room, my eyes frantically searching for a clue. That was when I saw it. Poking out from beneath the edge of the filthy bathroom rug was a glimmer of silver.
I set Lucy down gently and walked over. I reached down and picked up a broken silver rosary.
I recognized it instantly. It was the rosary my late mother had given Emily for her first communion. Emily had cherished it. She never would have left it behind willingly.
But tangled in the broken chain of the rosary was a small, heavy brass key. It had a number engraved on it: Vault 704.
I stared at the key. This wasn't a motel key. This was a high-security bank vault key.
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. The caller ID read: Victoria.
I answered it, putting it on speaker so Marcus could hear.
“Richard, darling,” my wife’s smooth, elegant voice came through the speaker. “Where are you? The gala starts in an hour, and your tuxedo is waiting.”
“Where is she, Victoria?” I asked, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
May you like
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. The facade of the loving wife vanished completely.
“I warned Martin he was getting sloppy,” Victoria sighed, her voice turning to ice. “You shouldn't have gone digging, Richard. It’s too late. If you want to see your precious daughter alive, you’ll come to the old corporate archives building. Alone. If you bring Marcus or the police, Martin will put a bullet in Emily’s head.”
