Chapter 18
The first three months with Arthur were a blur of sleepless nights, dirty diapers, and more love than I’d ever thought possible.
He was a good baby. Happy. Healthy. He only cried when he was hungry or tired or needed a change. He smiled for the first time at six weeks, and Marcus nearly fainted from the cuteness. He laughed out loud at three months, and we threw a party.
Everyone doted on him.
My father showed up every morning at seven with breakfast, just to hold his grandson for an hour before work. Daniel taught him to make silly faces and bought him every baseball cap and tiny jersey he could find. Marcus’s mom brought homemade soup and knitted sweaters and sang him Chinese lullabies that put him right to sleep.
Marcus was the most incredible father. He got up for every nighttime feeding, even when he had to be in court early the next day. He changed diapers without complaining. He talked to Arthur like he was a grown-up, explaining court cases and baseball stats and why the Dodgers were better than the Giants.
I went back to work part-time, running the scholarship fund my father had started in my mother’s name. It felt good to be doing something meaningful, to be helping kids the way my mother would have wanted. Most days, I brought Arthur with me—he had a little crib in my office, and he’d sleep while I worked, or coo at the volunteers who came in.
Life was full. Busy. Perfect.
But in the back of my mind, there was always a small, quiet voice. The voice that had kept me alive for twelve years. The voice that said: Don’t get too comfortable. Something bad is always waiting.
I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was over. The Whitmores were gone. In prison. Dead. There was no one left to hurt us.
I was wrong.
It started with small things.
Strange cars parked outside the penthouse at odd hours. Hang-up phone calls in the middle of the night. A feeling of being watched when I walked Arthur in the park.
I mentioned it to Marcus. He increased security. Put more cameras on the building. Had the police run the license plates of the strange cars.
Nothing.
All the cars were registered to rental companies. The phone calls came from burner phones. No leads. No suspects.
Then, on a rainy Tuesday in October, it got worse.
I was leaving the grocery store with Arthur in his car seat. It was pouring. I was fumbling with my keys, trying to get the back door open, when a man walked past me.
He bumped my shoulder. Hard.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, not looking at me. He kept walking.
I got Arthur into the car, strapped him in, closed the door. I was about to get in the driver’s seat when I noticed something tucked under the windshield wiper.
An envelope.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A recent photograph of me and Arthur in the park. We were sitting on a bench. I was feeding him a bottle. The photo had been taken from the trees across the path—zoomed in, clear.
On the back, written in the same block letters as the letters Robert had sent:
He looks just like you. It would be a shame if anything happened to him.
My blood turned to ice.
I looked around the parking lot. The rain blurred everything. No one was there. But I could feel eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.
I jumped in the car, locked the doors, and peeled out of the parking lot. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the wheel. I drove straight to the DA’s office, not stopping for red lights, not caring about anything except getting my son somewhere safe.
Marcus was in a meeting when I burst in, Arthur in my arms, the photograph crumpled in my hand. His face went white when he saw me.
“Clear the room,” he snapped at the other lawyers.
They left quickly.
Marcus locked the door. He took Arthur from me—our son was fussy from the fast driving—and held him close with one arm while he looked at the photograph with the other.
His jaw tightened.
“Who would do this?” I whispered. “Robert and Eleanor are in prison. The mercenaries are in prison. There’s no one left. Who hates us this much?”
Marcus was quiet for a long time, rocking Arthur, thinking.
“Eleanor had a sister,” he said finally. “Victoria. Younger by ten years. She left the country right after the trial. Moved to England. We never had any reason to go after her. She was never part of the fraud or the murders.”
He looked at me.
“But she was always loyal to Eleanor. They were very close. Victoria visited her every week in prison until Eleanor was moved to solitary. If she blames you for Eleanor’s fate… she might want revenge.”
“Victoria Voss,” I said, the name clicking into place. “The lawyer. The one who defended Eleanor at the trial.”
Marcus nodded. “That’s her. Brilliant. Ruthless. And she has more than enough money to hire whoever she wants. If she’s back in the country… and if she’s the one doing this… we’re in trouble. She’s not like Robert. She’s not crazy. She’s careful. Methodical. She plans ten moves ahead. If she wants to hurt you, she won’t make the same mistakes the others did.”
Arthur started crying. I took him back, holding him tight, pressing my face to the top of his soft, sweet-smelling hair.
May you like
“What do we do?” I said.
“First,” Marcus said, already on the phone, “we get you and Arthur somewhere safe. Somewhere no one knows about. Then I’m going to find Victoria Voss. And I’m going to make sure she never comes near our family again.”
