THE THREADBARE BLANKET

The private airstrip was cloaked in darkness, save for the glaring floodlights illuminating the sleek white fuselage of the Blackwood corporate jet. The rain had intensified, masking the sound of the SUV as Arthur killed the headlights and coasted to a stop behind a row of shipping containers.

Grace huddled in the passenger seat, her teeth chattering. Arthur took off his wool sweater and wrapped it tightly around her and the baby.

“You stay here,” Arthur commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Keep the doors locked. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, you drive this car to the nearest hospital and demand a blood test for the baby. It’s the only way to prove he’s ours.”

“Arthur, no.” Grace grabbed his wrist. “Julian will kill you.”

“I died a year ago when I lost you,” Arthur said softly, pressing a desperate, lingering kiss to her lips. “I’m not losing you again.”

He slipped out of the SUV into the freezing rain.

He knew this hangar. He and Julian had flown out of it a hundred times for business trips. He crept along the perimeter fencing, finding the maintenance access door. He punched in the override code—0412, their mother’s birthday—and slipped inside.

The massive hangar was quiet. The jet was prepped, stairs down, waiting for its passengers.

Arthur moved toward the glass-walled office overlooking the runway. This was where Julian kept his private safe for international transport documents. If Julian had forged a birth certificate, the originals and the fake papers had to be in there.

Arthur crept up the metal staircase and slipped into the office.

He knelt in front of the floor safe. He entered Julian’s standard code. Error. He tried Julian’s anniversary. Error.

Arthur swore under his breath. He thought for a second. Tomorrow was the deadline for the trust. Tomorrow was his 35th birthday.

He typed in his own birthday.

The light flashed green. The heavy door clicked open.

Arthur pulled out a thick leather folio. Inside were exactly what Grace had said: a pristine birth certificate naming Julian Blackwood as the father of a baby boy named Leo. Alongside it were offshore bank account transfers to a Dr. Aris Thorne.

But beneath those documents was something that made Arthur’s blood turn to ice.

It was a pre-signed death certificate.

The name on it was Arthur Blackwood. The cause of death was listed as a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The date was tomorrow.

“Efficient, isn’t it?” a voice echoed from the doorway.

Arthur froze, the documents heavy in his hand. He turned slowly.

Julian stood in the office doorway. He looked perfectly put together in his tailored suit, not a hair out of place despite the rain. In his right hand, pointing directly at Arthur’s chest, was a suppressed 9mm pistol.

“You always were the sentimental one, Arthur,” Julian sighed, stepping into the room. “Going for the dramatic hero moment. You should have driven to Canada. I would have let you live for a few more days.”

“You kept my wife in a cage for a year,” Arthur growled, stepping away from the safe. “You stole my son.”

“I preserved the family legacy,” Julian corrected sharply. “Father left the company to you simply because you were the ‘stable’ one. But you were always weak, Arthur. A poet masquerading as a CEO. You were going to run Blackwood into the ground with your charities and your morals. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you tried to murder Grace.”

“She was an unfortunate necessity. The bridge loan was due, and she was the only thing keeping you sane. If she died, you’d crumble. The trust would revert to me.” Julian smiled thinly. “Finding out she was pregnant was a delightful twist of fate. Why wait for you to die, when I could simply raise the rightful heir myself?”

Julian raised the gun, aiming it squarely between Arthur’s eyes.