Chapter 6 - The Empty House
Meredith gasped, covering her mouth with her hands as she stared at the bloody stuffed bear. It was Leo’s favorite—a battered brown teddy he carried everywhere.
"Stay behind me," I ordered, my protective instincts flaring. I stepped over the splintered wood, entering the dark, cavernous foyer. The silence in the house was heavy, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway.
I turned on the flashlight on my phone, sweeping the beam across the marble floors. There were scuff marks, signs of a struggle near the entryway table. A shattered porcelain vase lay in pieces against the baseboard.
"Mom?" Meredith called out, her voice trembling. "Leo?!"
No answer.
We moved quickly through the first floor. The living room, the kitchen, and Eleanor's immaculate formal dining room were all empty. The blood trail didn't continue past the foyer, which gave me a fraction of hope that no one had sustained a fatal injury inside the house.
"Let's check upstairs," I said, leading the way.
We bounded up the sweeping staircase to the guest wing. Eleanor’s master suite door was wide open. The bed hadn't been slept in. Closets were ripped open, expensive designer luggage pulled from the top shelves. It looked as though someone had packed in a frantic rush.
But it was Leo's room at the end of the hall that made Meredith break down.
The small, nautical-themed bedroom was a mess. Drawers were yanked open, clothes scattered across the floor. But on the center of the little boy’s bed rested an object that made my chest tighten.
It was a drawing, done in bright, messy crayons. It showed three stick figures standing outside a large house. A woman with long hair, a small boy holding a brown bear, and a tall man wearing a grey suit. Above the tall man, in shaky, backwards letters, the child had written: DAD.
Meredith picked up the drawing, pressing it to her chest as tears streamed down her face. "He knew, Grant. I used to tell him stories about you. I told him that one day, we were going to be a real family. He was waiting for you."
I stared at the drawing, a profound sense of loss washing over me. I had missed years of this child's life, years of Meredith's love, all because I had trusted the wrong man.
"They took him," Meredith cried. "David must have warned her. They packed up and took him."
"They couldn't have gone far," I said, my mind racing. "It's 5:15 AM. Commercial flights are easily tracked. If David is moving them, he's using a private charter. And there's only one airfield in Charlotte that allows unscheduled takeoffs before dawn."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Marcus.
"Grant, I have Judge Harrison on the line. He's signing the emergency custody order now, but he needs proof of the fraud to seal the warrant for David's arrest."
"I have the ledger," I said into the phone. "Marcus, send the police to the Monroe Executive Airport. David Sterling and Eleanor Vance are attempting to flee the state with a minor."
"Monroe? Grant, that airfield is owned by Whitcomb Capital. David has full clearance there."
"Which means my security badges still work," I said, gripping Meredith's hand. "Tell the police to step on it."
We sprinted out of the house and back to my car. I threw the vehicle into gear, tires squealing as we tore out of the estate. The drive to the private airfield usually took forty minutes; I made it in twenty-five, weaving through the early morning fog that blanketed the North Carolina highways.
As we pulled up to the gated entrance of the airfield, I flashed my founder's badge at the bewildered security guard. The gate swung open.
Through the mist, I saw it. A sleek Gulfstream jet was parked on the tarmac, its engines whining as they began their pre-flight sequence. The loading stairs were still down.
I slammed the brakes near the hangar, blocking the jet's taxi path. I jumped out of the car, Meredith right behind me.
"Grant, look!" she yelled, pointing toward the stairs.
Standing at the base of the jet was David. He was holding a large leather briefcase. Beside him, clutching a frightened, crying Leo by the wrist, was Eleanor.
David looked up, his smug expression faltering as he saw me storming across the tarmac. He dropped the briefcase and reached inside his jacket.
"Get on the plane, Eleanor! Now!" David shouted over the roar of the engines.
Eleanor yanked Leo toward the stairs. The boy stumbled, crying out for his aunt.
"Auntie Mer! Help!"
"Let him go!" Meredith screamed, sprinting ahead of me.
Before Meredith could reach them, David stepped in front of her, pulling a small, silver handgun from his coat. He pointed it directly at my wife’s chest.
"Back off, Meredith," David sneered, his eyes wild with panic. "Or I swear to God, I'll drop you right here."
I froze in my tracks, my heart stopping. I was ten feet away. The gun was perfectly steady in his hand.
And then, over the roar of the jet engines, I heard a cold, mechanical click behind me.
"Drop the weapon, David," a deep voice commanded.
May you like
I turned my head. Standing by my car, holding a standard-issue police shotgun leveled at David's head, was a man I hadn't seen in three years.
It was Arthur Vance. Meredith's supposedly disgraced father.
