Chapter 2 - THE WIFE IN THE SHADOWS
I stared at the name written beneath my late wife’s signature.
Evelyn.
Evelyn was Marian’s younger sister. She was the woman who had moved into my home twenty-six years ago to help me grieve. She was the woman who had held my hand at Marian’s funeral, who had packed up Hannah’s clothes when I couldn't bear to look at them, and who, five years later, had become my second wife.
And she was the woman currently calling my cell phone for the fourth time.
My hands shook so violently that the phone nearly slipped from my grasp. I looked down at Rosie. The eight-year-old girl was watching me with wide, terrified eyes, her small hands clutching her oversized winter coat.
“Is it her?” Rosie whispered, shrinking back into the leather booth of the restaurant. “Is it the lady from the big house?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and swiped the screen to answer.
“Thomas, where are you?” Evelyn’s voice was smooth, elegant, and laced with a perfect imitation of concern. “Your business associates are asking for you. The waiter said you walked out to the lobby half an hour ago.”
“I’m fine, Evelyn,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. I had negotiated billion-dollar mergers, but nothing required more composure than speaking to the woman who had stolen my child. “I felt a bit lightheaded. I stepped out for some fresh air.”
“Let me send the driver for you, darling,” Evelyn insisted smoothly. “You shouldn't be out in this snow.”
“No,” I said sharply. I closed my eyes, steadying myself. “I’m taking a cab to the office. I left a file I need for tomorrow. Go home, Evelyn. I’ll see you later.”
I hung up before she could argue.
I looked back at the folded piece of paper in Marian’s notebook. Thomas must never know about this. — Marian. And below it, Evelyn’s signature, promising to take Hannah away.
For twenty-six years, Evelyn had watched me weep for a daughter she knew was alive. She had watched me hire private investigators, offer millions in reward money, and slowly hollow out from the inside.
“Rosie,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. I placed my coat around her small, shivering shoulders. “We have to go find your mommy. Right now.”
Rosie nodded, her brown eyes completely trusting me. “She’s at our apartment. It’s not far.”
I didn't wait for my security detail. I grabbed Rosie’s small hand, and we slipped out the side exit of the luxury restaurant, disappearing into the freezing Manhattan night. I hailed a yellow taxi, handing the driver a hundred-dollar bill and telling him to drive to the address Rosie whispered to me.
It was a crumbling brick tenement building in Queens, a stark contrast to the sprawling penthouse I shared with Evelyn. The hallway smelled of damp wood and boiling cabbage. The radiator hissed loudly in the corner.
“It’s this one,” Rosie said, pointing to a peeling green door at the end of the hall. Apartment 4B.
I knocked softly. “Hannah? It’s Thomas. It’s your father.”
No answer.
“Mommy?” Rosie called out, turning the brass doorknob.
It wasn't locked. The door swung open, creaking on its old hinges.
We stepped inside, and my blood turned to ice.
The small apartment had been completely ransacked. Chairs were overturned. The cushions on the thrift-store sofa had been slashed. The meager contents of the kitchen cabinets were shattered across the linoleum floor.
“Mommy!” Rosie screamed, running toward the only bedroom.
I chased after her, my seventy-year-old heart pounding against my ribs. The bedroom was empty. Hannah was gone.
But sitting perfectly centered on the stripped mattress was an object that made my breath catch in my throat.
It was a delicate, silver hair comb.
It was the comb I had given Marian on our wedding day. The comb I had buried her with twenty-six years ago.
I reached out with a trembling hand and picked it up. Woven into the silver teeth was a single, fresh white rose.
“She’s gone,” Rosie sobbed, dropping to her knees on the floor.
Suddenly, a heavy footstep sounded in the hallway behind us.
I spun around, stepping in front of Rosie to shield her.
Standing in the doorway of the bedroom was a man in a dark trench coat. He was tall, his face obscured by the shadows of the dim apartment. He held a silenced pistol in his right hand.
“You shouldn't have come here, Thomas,” the man said, his voice a low, familiar gravel.
He stepped into the light.
May you like
It was Arthur, my head of personal security. A man who had worked for me—and Evelyn—for twenty years.
And he was pointing his weapon directly at my granddaughter.
