Chapter 5 - The Journey to Atlanta
Leaving Claire with the excuse of a "business trip to New York," I drove through the night toward the affluent suburbs of Buckhead, Atlanta. Megan sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the highway, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. We had left the twins with a trusted, high-security nanny at the penthouse.
"What if they love him, Rowan?" Megan whispered as the city skyline appeared in the distance. "The couple who took him... what if they are good people who have no idea what Claire did? How do we tear a baby away from a home where he is loved?"
"We find out the truth first," I said, squeezing her hand. "If they bought a child through an illegal, extorted adoption, they aren't innocent, Megan. And no one loves him more than his real mother."
Marcus’s contact led us to a heavily gated estate belonging to a high-profile corporate lawyer named Harrison Vance-Vane. Through Arthur’s background checks, we discovered Harrison was a close business associate of Judge Whitmore. This wasn't a random adoption; it was a curated favor. A stolen child traded like a commodity to cement a political alliance.
We parked down the street and watched through binoculars as a nanny pushed a high-end stroller out onto the manicured lawn. Inside was a tiny baby boy, his soft blond hair catching the morning sun.
Megan gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "That’s him, Rowan. Look at his chin. He looks exactly like Arthur."
Before I could stop her, Megan opened the car door and stepped out onto the pavement.
"Megan, wait!" I called out, rushing after her.
The nanny noticed us approaching and instantly looked suspicious, stepping between us and the stroller. "Can I help you? This is private property."
"I’m not here to hurt anyone," Megan said, her voice cracking with an overwhelming maternal power. "But that is my son. His name is Ethan. And he was stolen from me."
The front door of the mansion threw open, and Harrison Vance-Vane stepped out, his expression instantly shifting from annoyance to stark panic as he recognized my face from financial news.
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"Rowan Bellamy?" Harrison stammered, looking between me and the baby. "What the hell is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning, Harrison," I said, stepping forward, my voice dropping like a hammer, "is that you are currently in possession of a victim of federal human trafficking. And if you don't want the FBI raiding your home before noon, you’re going to invite us inside right now."
