Chapter 5 - The Phantom of the Past
By week three, the new rhythm of my life felt almost surreal.
I moved Leo and myself into a beautiful, sunlit brownstone in Lincoln Park. It had a backyard, a modern kitchen, and a room for Leo that we painted blue, filled with Lego sets and books he had always dreamed of owning.
For the first time since my wife, Sarah, died of ovarian cancer two years ago, I didn't wake up at three in the morning in a cold sweat worrying about rent.
Every evening, I took Leo to the park near our house. And every evening, I watched him run across the grass, healthy, laughing, and whole.
"Daddy, look! I caught a beetle!" Leo yelled, holding up a little shiny green bug on a leaf.
"That's a emerald beetle, buddy," I smiled, sitting on the wooden bench, my laptop resting on my knees. "Put him back in the grass so his family knows where he is."
"Okay!"
As Leo ran back toward the bushes, my phone buzzed on the bench beside me. It was an private number.
"Sal," Eleanor’s voice came through the speaker. She sounded tired, the weight of the ongoing federal investigations catching up to her.
"Ms. Vance. Is everything alright?"
"Arthur Sterling was released on five million dollars bail two hours ago," she said flatly. "His lawyers managed to convince the magistrate that he poses no flight risk."
My grip tightened on the phone. "He's out?"
"Yes. And my security team just informed me that Julian Vance liquidated twelve million dollars in offshore stock options forty-eight hours ago. He’s liquidating everything he owns."
"He's preparing to run," I deduced fast.
"Or he's preparing to pay someone to fix his problems," Eleanor corrected grimly. "Sal, I’ve assigned two private security guards to watch your brownstone. They will be stationed outside starting tonight."
"I can take care of myself, Eleanor."
"It's not for you. It's for Leo," she said softly. "Please. Let me do this."
I looked over at my little boy, who was carefully placing the beetle back onto a blade of grass. "Alright. Thank you."
"Sal?" Eleanor paused. "Do you ever regret stopping at that park bench?"
I looked up at the sky, watching the golden light of the setting sun filter through the oak trees. I thought about the fear, the threats, the corporate wolves circling our heels.
"No," I said quietly. "Not for a single second."
That night, after I tucked Leo into bed and read him two chapters of Treasure Island, I sat in the dark living room, staring at a framed photograph of Sarah on the mantelpiece.
"I'm trying, Sarah," I whispered to the empty room. "I'm keeping him safe."
A faint knock sounded at the front door.
I instantly reached for the heavy brass fireplace poker standing near the hearth. I walked quietly to the foyer, looking through the peephole.
Standing on the porch was a woman. She was wearing a dark raincoat, her hood pulled up against the night drizzle.
I unlocked the door, keeping the chain engaged. "Who is it?"
The woman pulled down her hood.
My breath hitched. The blood drained completely from my face.
She was in her late twenties, with soft brown hair, green eyes, and a small crescent-shaped scar near her left eyebrow.
May you like
It was Clara.
The daughter Eleanor Vance had told me died thirty years ago.
