Chapter 2 - THE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then the ballroom doors slammed shut.
My head security chief, Marcus Reed, rushed toward me with his hand inside his jacket.
“Mr. Whitmore, we need to get you out of here. Now.”
I barely heard him.
I was staring at Lyla.
“Who found your mother?”
She grabbed the sleeve of my tuxedo.
“The men who took her. They said she had something that belonged to you.”
“What did they look like?”
“One had a scar here.” She touched her left cheek. “The other wore a silver ring with a black stone.”
My stomach tightened.
I knew that ring.
Twenty years ago, my father had employed a private security team. Their leader, Victor Hale, wore exactly that ring.
Victor had supposedly died in a car accident six months after my sister disappeared.
I looked at Marcus.
“Lock down the building. Nobody leaves without being identified.”
He nodded.
But before he could move, a familiar voice interrupted us.
“Charles, darling, what's going on?”
Victoria Whitmore approached through the crowd.
She was my father's younger sister, my aunt, and the woman who had practically raised me after my parents died.
She wore a diamond necklace worth more than most people's homes. Her silver hair was perfectly arranged, and her expression carried the practiced concern of someone accustomed to being admired.
Her eyes immediately landed on Lyla.
Then on the gold watch in my hand.
For the briefest moment, her face changed.
It was almost imperceptible.
But I saw it.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Apparently, it belongs to my sister.”
Victoria recovered quickly.
“Charles, you're exhausted. You've just experienced something extraordinary. You shouldn't be entertaining a child's fantasy.”
I held the watch higher.
“Do you recognize it?”
She stared at the engraving.
“No.”
It was the first lie.
And I knew it.
“Marcus, bring the car around.”
Victoria stepped closer.
“You cannot possibly be thinking of leaving with this child. Look at her. She could be part of a kidnapping scheme.”
Lyla moved behind my wheelchair.
“She knows about my mother,” the girl whispered.
Victoria's eyes sharpened.
“What did you say?”
Lyla shook her head.
I turned toward my aunt.
“Stay here.”
For the first time in my life, Victoria looked as though she might refuse an order from me.
Then Marcus returned.
“Sir, the garage is clear.”
We moved through a private corridor toward the elevators. My legs were shaking so badly that Marcus had to keep one hand near my elbow.
The sensation was real.
I could stand.
I could take several unstable steps.
But I was far from healed, and I knew I needed medical supervision.
Still, I had no intention of returning to that wheelchair willingly.
In the underground garage, Marcus opened the rear door of my armored SUV.
Lyla climbed inside and immediately curled into the corner.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the old church on Mercer Street.”
“Why there?”
“My mother told me that if anything happened, I should find the man with the golden lion.”
I looked down at the family crest on the watch.
The Whitmore lion.
“What happened to your mother?”
Lyla stared at her knees.
“She was in our apartment when the men came. She told me to hide inside the laundry closet. Then I heard her scream.”
My jaw tightened.
“Did you see them take her?”
She nodded.
“One of them said they needed the other half.”
“Other half of what?”
She reached into her pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.
It was a photograph.
A young woman stood beside a teenage boy in front of a summer house. The boy was me.
The girl was my sister, Evelyn.
On the back, in faded handwriting, were six words.
Charles, don't trust the people you love.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“Where did you get this?”
“Mom kept it under her pillow.”
I looked at the photograph again.
For twenty years, I had been told Evelyn died in a boating accident.
There had been no body, only a bloodstained piece of clothing recovered near the shore.
I had never been allowed to attend a funeral.
My father had said it was better to remember her alive.
Now an eight-year-old girl was sitting in my car with her photograph and her watch.
And someone had just kidnapped her mother.
When we reached Mercer Street, the church stood dark between two abandoned buildings.
Marcus entered first.
“Clear.”
Lyla climbed out and ran toward a narrow wooden door behind the altar.
“Mom!”
No answer.
Inside the small storage room, we found a blanket, an empty medicine bottle, and a child's drawing taped to the wall.
It showed a woman holding hands with a little girl.
Above them, someone had written:
If Charles comes, tell him the truth.
I turned the paper over.
There was an address.
And beneath it, a warning.
The accident wasn't an accident.
Before I could read further, Marcus's phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
His face went pale.
“Sir, we have a problem.”
“What?”
He turned the phone toward me.
A security camera image showed our SUV entering the church parking lot.
But the timestamp was only thirty seconds old.
Someone had been following us.
Then a gunshot shattered the church window.
Marcus threw himself over Lyla.
And from somewhere outside, a man's voice called my name.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Charles.”
I recognized the voice immediately.
May you like
Victor Hale.
The man who was supposed to be dead.
