Chapter 6
Three weeks later.
The house in Connecticut smelled of fresh paint and cinnamon.
Sophie was running through the halls, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors, screaming with laughter as Marcus—the head of security, now a permanent fixture in their lives—chased her pretending to be a monster.
Emily watched from the kitchen doorway, a mug of coffee in her hand. She was wearing jeans and one of Michael’s old sweaters. No more bruises. No more fear. Just sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of her daughter being happy.
Michael came up behind her and kissed her shoulder.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.
“I was just thinking how strange it is,” she said. “That this is real. That I’m not going to wake up in that cabin anymore.”
He turned her around.
“It’s real,” he said. “I’m real. She’s real. All of it.”
He had been true to his word. They had moved into the old family home the week after Victoria’s arrest. Painters had come. Carpenters had fixed the squeaky floors. A new security system had been installed—state of the art, with cameras covering every inch of the property.
Arthur had been right about the evidence. The package from Grand Central, combined with Bennett’s testimony and Victoria’s own confession on the penthouse security cameras, had been overwhelming. She was being held without bail at Rikers Island, facing forty-seven separate charges. The prosecution was asking for life without parole.
Harrington Properties had survived the scandal. Barely. The board had voted unanimously to make Michael CEO, effective immediately. Arthur had come out of the shadows to become his chief advisor. The stock had dipped at first, then roared back when the public learned the full story of what Victoria had done. America loved a good redemption story. And Michael Harrington, the grieving widower who had gotten his wife and child back against all odds, was the biggest redemption story of the year.
“Dada! Up!” Sophie shouted, running into the room with her arms raised.
Michael lifted her high above his head, making airplane noises. She shrieked with delight.
Emily’s phone buzzed on the counter.
It was a text from Arthur.
Press conference tomorrow at ten. Be ready.
She showed it to Michael. His smile faded slightly.
“I wish we didn’t have to do this,” he said. “I just want to be left alone.”
“We have to,” Emily said. “If we don’t tell our side, the tabloids will make up one. And Sophie is going to read about this someday. I want her to know the truth. That we fought for her. That we won.”
Michael nodded. He set Sophie down and watched her run back to Marcus.
“You’re right,” he said. “Always.”
That night, after Sophie was asleep, they sat on the back porch watching the fireflies dance over the lawn. The air was warm and sweet with the smell of clover.
Emily rested her head on Michael’s shoulder.
“Tell me something,” she said. “During those two years. When you thought I was dead. Did you ever... did you ever meet anyone else?”
Michael was quiet for a long time.
“There were women,” he said. “Set up by my mother, mostly. Daughters of her friends. Society girls who would have made perfect Harrington wives. I went on dates. I smiled. I danced. But I never let any of them get close. How could I? I was still married to a ghost.”
He turned to look at her.
“Every time I kissed one of them, all I could taste was you. Every time I woke up alone in that big bed, all I could feel was the empty space where you were supposed to be. Your mother tried so hard to replace you. But no one can. No one ever will.”
Emily kissed him. It was soft and slow and full of all the years they had lost.
“I love you, Michael Harrington,” she said.
“I love you too, Emily Harrington. More than air. More than life.”
Inside the house, a floorboard creaked.
Michael was on his feet in an instant, gun drawn.
“Who’s there?” he called.
Marcus came running out of the shadows near the garage.
“Sir, I just checked the perimeter. Everything is clear. Probably just the house settling.”
Michael lowered the gun, but his heart was still hammering.
“Sorry,” he said to Emily. “Old habits.”
She took his hand.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I do it too. Every time the wind blows too hard, I reach for Sophie. Every time a car drives down the road, I hide behind the curtains. We’re broken, Michael. Both of us. In ways we probably won’t even understand for years.”
“Then we’ll heal together,” he said. “One day at a time.”
But sleep was hard to come by that night.
Emily lay beside Michael, listening to his breathing. Even in sleep, he was tense. His jaw was clenched. His hand rested on the gun he kept on the nightstand.
She slipped out of bed and walked down the hall to Sophie’s room. The little girl was curled up with her stuffed rabbit, her hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo. Emily sat in the rocking chair beside the crib and watched her.
This was what it had all been for. This small, perfect human being.
She thought about Victoria in her cell. Was she sleeping? Or was she lying awake, plotting, the way Emily had done for two years?
The press conference tomorrow was the final nail in her coffin. Michael and Emily would sit side by side and tell the world everything. The kidnapping. The faked death. The cabin. The baby. Every terrible detail. And when it was over, Victoria would be finished. No judge. No jury. No amount of money or connections could save her from the court of public opinion.
Unless she had one more card to play.
Emily stood and walked to the window. The moon was full and bright, casting long shadows across the lawn. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
And then she saw it.
A flash of light from the tree line at the end of the driveway.
Just for a second. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Emily’s blood turned to ice.
She ran back to the bedroom and shook Michael awake.
“Michael,” she whispered. “Wake up. There’s someone in the woods.”
He was out of bed before she finished the sentence, gun in hand. He called Marcus.
“Perimeter breach,” he said. “North tree line. Bring the team.”
Within thirty seconds, the house was alive with silent, moving men. Night-vision goggles came out. Radios crackled. Michael put on a bulletproof vest and handed Emily another.
“Put this on,” he said. “Stay in Sophie’s room. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone except me or Marcus. No matter what you hear.”
“Michael—”
“Promise me, Emily.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her hard. Then he was gone.
Emily ran to Sophie’s room. She locked the door, pushed the heavy dresser in front of it, and picked up her sleeping daughter. Sophie stirred.
“Mommy?” she mumbled.
“It’s okay, baby,” Emily whispered. “Mommy’s here. Go back to sleep.”
She sat in the farthest corner of the room, the vest heavy on her chest, holding Sophie tight. Through the walls, she heard shouting. The sound of running feet. And then—
Pop. Pop-pop.
Gunshots.
Sophie woke up screaming.
Emily clamped one hand over her mouth, rocking her, whispering apologies into her hair. Tears ran down her own face. Not again. Please, God. Not again.
The door handle rattled.
Emily froze.
“Emily!” It was Michael. “Open up. It’s me. It’s over.”
She moved the dresser and unlocked the door. Michael stood there, his face streaked with dirt, but his eyes were clear.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“Two men,” he said. “Ex-military. Hired guns. We got one. The other got away. But before we took the first one down, he talked. Said someone paid him fifty thousand dollars to break in and take Sophie.”
Emily felt the room spin.
“Victoria,” she said.
Michael shook his head.
“Victoria’s in Rikers. Maximum security. No phone. No visitors. She couldn’t have arranged this.”
“Then who?”
Michael’s face was grim.
“Before he passed out, our prisoner said three words.”
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“What?”
“‘Arthur sent us.’”
