Chapter 6 - The Noose Tightens
The six hours felt like six years.
Claire, Leo, and Noah sat in the dark living room, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window. Every car that drove past made them freeze. Every footstep on the stairs below sent a shiver of terror down Claire's spine.
Noah lay on the sofa, his head resting on Claire’s lap. He was exhausted, but he refused to sleep, his hand clutching her sleeve as if she were his only lifeline in a world of storm.
"Claire," Leo whispered from the window. "There’s a black SUV idling across the street. It’s been there for ten minutes."
Claire’s heart stopped. She crept to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains.
The black SUV was identical to the ones used by the Whitman estate security.
"They found us," Claire whispered. "Vanessa must have tracked my phone's location before I turned it off."
"What do we do?" Leo asked, his voice rising in panic. "The fire escape?"
"The fire escape leads to the alley behind the laundromat," Claire said. "They’ll have someone watching it."
She looked at Noah. He was looking at her, his blue eyes calm—surprisingly calm. He reached up, touching her scraped palm with his small finger.
He wrote a word on her hand:
RUN.
"We're not leaving you, Noah," Claire said.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the wooden stairs outside the apartment.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Claire Mason!" a voice boomed through the door. "This is the Quincy Police Department! Open the door immediately! We have a warrant for your arrest for the kidnapping of Noah Whitman!"
"They brought the local cops," Leo gasped, backing away from the door. "Claire, what do we do?"
"Leo, take Noah into the back bedroom," Claire ordered, her voice turning cold and decisive. "Lock the door. If they break in, scream as loud as you can. Make sure the neighbors hear."
She walked to the front door, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't open it.
"I’m not opening the door!" Claire shouted. "The boy is safe! His father is on his way from Switzerland! If you touch us, Grant Whitman will have your badges!"
"Open the door, Claire!" the voice repeated, followed by the heavy thud of a shoulder slamming against the wood.
The doorframe began to splinter.
"They're going to break it down!" Leo cried from the hallway.
Claire looked around the small kitchen. She grabbed a heavy iron skillet from the stove, her knuckles white. She was done running. She had spent her whole life being invisible, being the help, being the girl who cleaned up after the rich and powerful.
But she was not going to let them take Noah.
The door burst open with a shower of wood splinters.
A police officer lunged inside, his hand on his holster. Behind him stood Vanessa Whitman, her face cold and triumphant, her eyes fixed on the hallway.
"Where is my stepson?" Vanessa hissed, stepping into the ruined apartment. "Arrest this girl!"
"Don't touch her!"
A powerful, commanding voice shattered the tension.
A second group of men pushed past the local police officers in the hallway. They wore dark suits, bulletproof vests, and held federal badges.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," the lead agent announced, pointing his weapon at the local officers. "Drop your weapons. Now."
The local cops blinked, caught off guard, and slowly lowered their guns.
From behind the federal agents, a tall, distinguished man in a dark cashmere coat stepped into the room. His face was pale, his eyes red from crying, but his posture was that of a man who possessed immense, absolute authority.
It was Grant Whitman.
Vanessa’s face went pale. "Grant! Thank God you're here! This... this crazy maid kidnapped Noah—"
"Shut up, Vanessa," Grant said.
The tone of his voice was so cold, so filled with a lethal, quiet fury, that Vanessa actually stepped back, her mouth hanging open.
Grant didn't look at her. He walked past her, his eyes searching the small apartment until they landed on the back bedroom door.
The door opened, and Leo stepped out, carrying Noah in his arms.
"Daddy," Noah whispered.
The word was small. It was weak. It was a raspy, unused sound.
May you like
But it was the first word Noah Whitman had spoken in an entire year.
Grant fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he pulled his son into his arms, sobbing openly into the boy's shoulder.
