Chapter 3
Andrew Prescott poured himself a scotch and smiled.
The crystal glass caught the light of the chandelier, sending rainbows dancing across the marble floor of his study. Outside, the sun was setting over Belle Meade, painting the sky in colors that cost more than most people’s houses.
He swirled the amber liquid and took a sip.
Perfect.
Everything was perfect.
The sheriff had left an hour ago, clapping him on the back and promising the whole thing would be “taken care of.” The security footage from the house—all fourteen cameras—had been wiped clean. The text messages between him and Emma had been selectively deleted, leaving only her “hysterical” outbursts and his calm, reasonable replies.
His attorney had already drafted the custody papers.
Full physical and legal custody of Jacob and Lily.
Emma would get supervised visitation. Two hours a month. In a public place. With a court-appointed monitor.
By the end of the week, she would be out of his life completely.
He would get the kids. The house. The reputation intact.
And Sarah...
Andrew’s smile widened.
Sarah was everything Emma wasn't. Young. Ambitious. Willing to play her role without complaining. She understood that power required sacrifice. That being the wife of Andrew Prescott meant standing in his shadow and looking beautiful.
Emma had never understood that.
She had always wanted to be his equal.
Stupid woman.
A soft knock on the study door.
“Come in.”
Margaret entered, carrying a fresh bottle of scotch. She looked tired but satisfied. The Easter mess had been cleaned up. The carpet—thank God—had been salvageable with a five-hundred-dollar specialty cleaning crew. The caterers had been paid off and told to forget everything they had seen.
“The children are back from Elizabeth’s,” she said, setting the bottle down. “They’re asking for their mother.”
Andrew waved a hand dismissively.
“Tell them she’s sick. Tell them she’s getting help. It doesn't matter what you tell them. In a few days, they won't remember what she looks like anyway.”
Margaret sat in the leather chair across from his desk.
“You’re certain this is the right move, Andrew? Daniel Mercer... he’s not like the other men we’ve dealt with. There’s something in his eyes. Something... broken.”
Andrew laughed. It was a sharp, cold sound.
“Broken men are the easiest to defeat, Mother. They’re predictable. He’ll go to the police. They’ll ignore him. He’ll hire an attorney. I’ll buy him too. He’ll make a scene on the courthouse steps. My PR team will bury him under a mountain of stories about his PTSD, his violent outbursts, his inability to hold a job since leaving the service.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Within a month, Daniel Mercer will be the villain of this story. A dangerous, unstable old man who tried to tear apart a happy family. And Emma... poor, confused Emma... she’ll be painted as his victim just as much as I am. The court will have no choice but to protect the children from both of them.”
Margaret nodded slowly. She had raised her son to be exactly this way. Ruthless. Calculating. Always three moves ahead. It was what had made the Prescott name mean something in this town.
Still...
“There’s the matter of the phone call,” she said. “When he left, he used some kind of device. Not a regular cell phone. A satellite phone, I think. He said something about a beacon. A protocol.”
Andrew waved this away too.
“Veteran nonsense. They all have their little rituals. Their codes. Their secret handshakes. It means nothing. He’s a retired colonel, Mother. Retired. His men have jobs now. Mortgages. Kids of their own. They’re not going to risk everything for a domestic dispute in Nashville, Tennessee.”
He finished his scotch and poured another.
“Trust me. By next Easter, this will all be a bad memory. Sarah will be the new Mrs. Prescott. The children will call her Mom. And Daniel Mercer will be drinking himself to death in that little shack he calls a house, wondering where it all went wrong.”
Margaret stood.
“Very well. I’ll have the nanny get the children ready for bed. And Andrew... try not to look so pleased. The neighbors are already talking. We need to appear devastated. Concerned. A family torn apart by mental illness.”
Andrew’s face shifted instantly.
The smile vanished.
His eyes filled with a carefully calibrated sadness. His shoulders slumped just enough to suggest a man carrying the weight of the world.
“Better?” he asked.
Margaret smiled.
“Perfect. You always were your mother’s son.”
She left the room.
Andrew waited until he heard her footsteps fade down the hallway. Then he pulled out his personal cell phone—the one no one knew about, the one registered to a shell company—and dialed a number he knew by heart.
Sarah answered on the second ring.
“Hey, you,” she purred. “I saw the news. Well... the lack of news. I’m assuming that means it went well?”
“Better than well,” Andrew said. “By Friday, Emma will be served with divorce papers. By the end of the month, she’ll be gone.”
“Mmm. And what about me?”
Andrew grinned.
“Give it six months. A year at most. You’ll be walking through those front doors as Mrs. Andrew Prescott. And then... the real fun begins.”
Sarah laughed. It was a light, musical sound. The sound of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it.
“I can’t wait. But Andrew... what about her father? He looked at you today like he wanted to skin you alive.”
Andrew took another sip of scotch.
“Let him look. Men like Daniel Mercer are all the same. They talk big. They make threats. But when push comes to shove, they fold. Because they know what happens when you go up against the Prescotts. You lose. Always.”
He paused.
“Besides, I have insurance.”
“What kind of insurance?”
“Sheriff Tompkins is going to pay Daniel a little visit tomorrow morning. He’s going to find a reason to search the house. He’s going to ‘find’ the unregistered firearm I had my man plant in Daniel’s basement last night. And then... retired Colonel Daniel Mercer is going to be looking at ten years in federal prison. Without him, Emma has nothing. No money. No protection. No hope.”
Sarah whistled softly.
“You really are terrible, Andrew Prescott.”
“I know,” he said, smiling again. “And you love it.”
He ended the call and set the phone down.
Everything was going exactly according to plan.
He stood and walked to the window, looking out over his estate. Ten acres of perfectly manicured lawn. A pool that glowed blue in the twilight. A garage that held seven cars worth more than most neighborhoods.
This was his kingdom.
And no one—no broken old soldier, no battered wife, no judge who suddenly grew a conscience—was going to take it from him.
He turned back to his desk.
That was when he noticed it.
The envelope.
Plain white. No stamp. No address. Just his name typed in crisp, black letters.
ANDREW PRESCOTT
He frowned.
He had locked the study door when the sheriff left. No one had come in. He would have heard them. The floorboards in the hallway creaked in three specific places. He had designed it that way.
He walked slowly around the desk.
The envelope sat in the exact center of the mahogany surface. Right on top of the custody papers.
How?
Andrew’s hand went to the drawer where he kept his Glock. His fingers closed around the cool metal. He didn't pull it out. Not yet.
He stared at the envelope.
It looked harmless enough.
But Andrew Prescott had survived this long in business and in life by trusting his instincts. And his instincts were screaming at him to leave the room. To call the sheriff. To get his security team here now.
Instead, he picked up the letter opener—ivory, a gift from his father—and slid it under the flap.
The envelope opened with a soft tearing sound.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Typed. Same font as the envelope.
No signature.
He read the first line.
And the blood drained from his face.
The paper slipped from his fingers, floating down to the desk.
He stood frozen.
Staring.
Unable to breathe.
On the paper, in perfect detail, was a transcript of every word he had said to Sarah two minutes ago.
Every word.
Every promise.
Every admission.
And at the bottom, typed in the same cold, black letters:
WE ARE ALWAYS WATCHING.
Andrew’s hand trembled as he reached for the phone.
He dialed the sheriff.
It went straight to voicemail.
He dialed his head of security.
Voicemail.
He dialed his attorney.
Voicemail.
Panic—real, cold, gut-churning panic—clawed at his throat.
He ran to the window.
The yard was empty.
The driveway was empty.
The street was empty.
But as he stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs, he saw it.
Flickering in the trees at the edge of his property.
A single red light.
Blinking.
Once.
Twice.
Gone.
Andrew stumbled back from the window.
He fell into his chair, gasping for air.
The old pickup truck.
The satellite phone.
The code.
He had thought it was veteran nonsense.
He had been so very, very wrong.
Somewhere in his house, in the walls, in the very air he breathed, there were people. People who could walk through locked doors. People who could record his most private conversations without leaving a trace. People who didn't care about judges or sheriffs or money or influence.
People who answered only to Daniel Mercer.
Andrew grabbed the bottle of scotch and drank directly from it.
He needed to think.
He needed to move.
He needed—
The lights went out.
Every light in the house.
The hum of the air conditioning died.
The security system keypad by the door went dark.
Total silence.
Total darkness.
Then, from the second floor—from the children’s wing—he heard it.
The soft, clear sound of a child’s music box.
Playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
Andrew’s blood turned to slush in his veins.
Jacob and Lily were asleep.
The nanny was in her quarters on the first floor.
No one was supposed to be up there.
No one.
He pulled the Glock from the drawer, racked the slide, and stood.
The music box played on.
Slow.
Sweet.
Terrifying.
Andrew forced his legs to move.
One step.
Two.
Three.
He reached the study door. His hand was on the handle when his personal cell—the secret one—buzzed on the desk behind him.
Once.
A text.
He didn't want to look.
He had to look.
He turned back, keeping the gun trained on the door, and snatched up the phone.
The screen glowed in the darkness.
The text was from an unknown number.
It contained only three words:
SHE IS SAFE.
Andrew stared at the words.
SHE IS SAFE.
Emma?
No.
No, it couldn't be.
Then who—
The music box stopped.
Silence again.
A floorboard creaked directly outside his study door.
Andrew raised the gun.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. His voice sounded thin. Weak. Nothing like the powerful man who had stood over Emma’s body that afternoon.
No answer.
Another creak.
Closer.
“I have a gun!” he screamed. “I will shoot!”
A soft chuckle.
From the other side of the door.
A man’s voice. Low. Amused. Completely without fear.
“Mr. Prescott,” the voice said. “You really should learn to be more careful where you point that thing. You might hurt someone.”
Andrew’s finger trembled on the trigger.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The voice laughed again.
“We want the same thing you wanted this afternoon, Mr. Prescott. We want to win.”
A pause.
“And unlike you... we don’t lose.”
The doorknob turned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Andrew fired.
The gunshot was deafening in the small room. The bullet slammed into the door, sending splinters of mahogany flying.
The doorknob kept turning.
The door swung open.
Standing in the hallway was a man.
Average height. Average build. Dressed in black from head to toe. No mask. No visible weapons.
He looked like... nothing.
Like a man you would pass on the street and forget instantly.
But his eyes.
Andrew had seen eyes like that exactly once before.
On a trip to Africa. In a cage. Staring back at him through the bars.
A lion.
Hungry.
Patient.
Certain.
The man looked at the bullet hole in the door. Then he looked at Andrew.
He smiled.
“Bad shot, Mr. Prescott.”
Andrew raised the gun again.
“Stay back! I’ll kill you!”
The man took a step into the room.
“No,” he said quietly. “You won't.”
He moved faster than Andrew’s eyes could follow.
One second he was ten feet away.
The next, he was standing directly in front of him.
The gun was gone.
Andrew found himself sitting back in his chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap, completely unable to move. He could breathe. He could think. But his muscles simply wouldn't obey.
The man stood over him.
“Let’s have a conversation, Mr. Prescott. Just us men. No lawyers. No sheriffs. No judges. Just you. And me. And the truth about what you did to Emma Mercer today.”
Andrew tried to speak. Nothing came out.
“Here’s how this works,” the man said, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite him. He moved like water. No wasted motion. No sound. “You’re going to listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you. You’re not going to interrupt. You’re not going to argue. And at the end... you’re going to thank me.”
May you like
He leaned forward.
“Because what I’m offering you is the only chance you have to walk away from this with your life.”
