Chapter 4 - The Dinner of Deceit
The heavy thud of Richard's dress shoes ascending the stairs sent a wave of panic crashing through the small attic room. I shoved Ethan back into the shadows behind the towering stacks of holiday storage bins and pulled the cedar closet door shut until the latch caught with a faint metallic click.
I stepped out onto the landing just as Richard reached the second floor. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled—an unprecedented sight for a man whose self-control bordered on pathological.
""What are you doing up here, Sarah?"" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in my presence near the attic access hall.
""Checking the cedar chests for winter blankets,"" I said, keeping my breathing level through sheer force of will. ""The temperature is dropping tonight, and the heating vent in our bedroom has been whistling again.""
Richard stared at me, his gaze sweeping from my face down to my hands. For a terrifying second, I thought he could see the residue of dust from the attic floor on my knees. But then he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
""Leave the blankets. Come downstairs and make dinner. I need you to set the table for three.""
My heart skipped a beat. ""Three?""
""Marcus is coming over,"" Richard said, turning back toward the stairs. ""We have business to discuss. A sensitive legal matter regarding one of my corporate accounts. I want a proper meal ready by seven. Roast chicken, potatoes, and open a bottle of the Cabernet from the cellar.""
""Of course,"" I managed to say. ""Give me an hour.""
He didn't wait for a response; he disappeared down the stairs and into the kitchen. I stood on the landing, my fingernails digging into my palms until the pain grounded me. Marcus was coming. The fixer. The enforcer. They were turning our family home into the headquarters for their cover-up.
I walked down to the kitchen, my mind racing through scenarios. I prepped the chicken, chopped the vegetables, and opened the wine, every movement mechanical and cold. While the food was roasting in the oven, I slipped into Richard’s study while he was upstairs showering.
His laptop was sitting on the mahogany desk, humming quietly in sleep mode. Richard was meticulous, but his arrogance was his fatal flaw; he had used the same eight-character password for fifteen years—his high school football jersey number followed by his initials.
I typed it in. The screen lit up instantly.
I plugged Clara's flash drive into the USB port and quickly navigated through Richard's open browser tabs and recent downloads. What I found made my blood run colder than it had all afternoon.
There was an open draft of an email addressed to an unregistered offshore intermediary in Panama. Attached were scanned documents labeled ""Relinquishment of Parental Rights"" and a wire transfer confirmation for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. But it wasn't an adoption agency. It was an illegal private placement broker that catered to ultra-wealthy clients seeking undocumented adoptions with no background checks or paper trails.
The baby wasn't going to a family. She was being erased from every public record in existence.
Suddenly, a heavy knock sounded at the back kitchen door. Marcus had arrived.
I ejected the flash drive, shoved it deep into my apron pocket, and closed the laptop lid just as the back door swung open. Marcus Vance stepped into the kitchen, smelling of stale tobacco and rain, his broad frame filling the doorway.
""Evening, Sarah,"" Marcus said, his smile thin and devoid of warmth. ""Richard said you were cooking. Smells like old times.""
""Marcus,"" I greeted him politely, stepping back into the kitchen with a plate of appetizers. ""Richard is just finishing getting dressed. Please, sit down.""
Marcus pulled out a chair, his cold eyes studying the kitchen table, then the hallway, then me. ""Tough times out there, Sarah. World is full of reckless people making terrible choices. Good thing Richard has a steady hand on the wheel, isn't it?""
""A very steady hand,"" I echoed, meeting his gaze without flinching. ""He always ensures everything is taken care of.""
Richard walked into the dining room a moment later, freshly shaved and wearing a clean sweater. The transformation back into the respectable suburban patriarch was chillingly complete.
May you like
""Marcus,"" Richard nodded. ""Let's eat first. Then we'll go down to the cellar and review the portfolio.""
As the three of us sat down to eat roast chicken beneath the crystal chandelier, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed seven times. And from the floorboards directly above our heads, so faint that only a mother’s ear could catch it, came the unmistakable sound of a newborn baby’s soft, hungry cry.
