Chapter 4 - The Vanishing
I bolted out of my office, rage and guilt tearing through my veins like liquid fire. ""Margaret!"" I roared.
The grand foyer was empty. The front door was wide open, the cool evening wind blowing through the entrance, fluttering the silk drapes. I ran out onto the driveway. Margaret’s silver sedan was gone, leaving fresh tire marks on the crushed gravel.
She had realized the net was closing. She was running.
I whipped out my phone, immediately dialing my personal head of private security, Frank Decker, a former federal investigator who handled Whitaker Enterprises’ high-level corporate intelligence.
""Frank,"" I said, my voice shaking with fury. ""Margaret Vance—our nanny. She just poisoned Zion and fled the estate in her Mercedes. Alert the state police, put an immediate trace on her plates, and flag her passport with homeland security. I want her hunted down before midnight.""
""Consider it done, Marcus,"" Frank responded, his tone instantly shifting to razor-sharp professional focus. ""Are you with Zion?""
""He’s in the PICU at St. Jude's. But Frank... I need you to find someone else first. Right now.""
""Who?""
""Emily Cruz. My housemaid. I fired her two hours ago. I threw her out without her phone, without her coat, without a dollar. She saved my son's life, Frank, and I threw her away like garbage. I need to find her before she disappears.""
""Give me her employment file details,"" Frank instructed.
I ran back to my desk, tearing open the HR drawer where our domestic staff contracts were filed. I pulled Emily's single-page application.
Emily Cruz. Twenty-four years old. No fancy nanny certifications. Her previous employment listed two years as a junior nursing assistant in a pediatric clinic in rural Oregon before the clinic shut down due to budget cuts. She had moved to Los Angeles three months ago to support her younger sister, who was undergoing physical therapy. Her address was listed in a run-down apartment complex in East Hollywood.
""I have her address, Frank,"" I said, reading the street name. ""I'm heading there myself.""
""Marcus, wait for my team,"" Frank warned. ""That neighborhood isn't safe at night, especially for a guy driving a car worth more than the entire block.""
""I don't give a damn about the car, Frank! I'm the one who threw her into the dirt. I'm going.""
I didn't take the Maybach. I took an old, nondescript company SUV from the garage, gunning the engine down the driveway. Every red light felt like an eternity. As I drove through the glittering high-rises of downtown and into the decaying strip malls of East Hollywood, the guilt sat on my chest like a lead weight.
I pictured Emily standing at the bus stop in the cold wind, wondering why doing the right thing had cost her livelihood. I pictured her sister waiting for medicine they couldn't afford because I had withheld Emily's final pay out of spite.
When I finally reached the address—a peeling, three-story stucco building with rusted iron fire escapes—the streetlights buzzed with a dull, flickering yellow hum. I leaped out of the car, bounded up the concrete steps, and pounded on the door marked 2B.
""Emily!"" I called out, my voice cracking. ""Emily, please! It’s Marcus Whitaker! Open the door!""
No answer. Only the muffled sound of a television from a neighboring apartment.
I pounded again. ""Emily!""
The door of apartment 2A creaked open on a security chain. An elderly woman with curlers in her hair peered out suspiciously. ""Stop making that racket! Emily ain't there!""
""Ma'am, please,"" I pleaded, stepping toward her door with my hands raised. ""Do you know where she went? It’s an emergency. I have to speak with her.""
May you like
The old woman eyed my tailored suit with deep suspicion. ""Are you the rich bastard she worked for? The one she was crying about when she came home two hours ago?""
Her words cut deep, slicing through every shred of pride I had left. ""Yes,"" I admitted, my voice dropping to a whisper. ""I am. And I need to fix what I broke.""
