Chapter 4 - The Dinner Table Trap
I moved with mechanical speed. I snapped the lockbox shut, lowered the oak plank back into place, scattered the shoe boxes across the closet floor, and slid the letter opener back onto the desk.
I took two deep, ragged breaths to steady my racing pulse, smoothed down my sweater, and stepped out into the hallway just as Brenda reached the top of the stairs carrying a porcelain tureen wrapped in a floral linen towel.
“Oh, sweetheart!” Brenda gasped, placing a manicured hand over her chest. “You startled me! You shouldn't be wandering around on those stairs so soon after major surgery. The doctor said bed rest, remember?”
She looked at me with those cold, calculating pale blue eyes—eyes that hid behind thick mascara and pearls. She was wearing a tailored lavender blazer, smelling of Chanel No. 5 and hypocrisy.
“I was looking for my phone,” I said, keeping my voice raspy and hollow, leaning slightly against the doorframe to play the part of the frail, devastated victim. “I can't seem to remember where I put anything these days.”
Brenda clicked her tongue with manufactured pity, resting the warm tureen on the hallway console table. She reached out and brushed a lock of hair from my forehead. Her touch felt like venomous thorns.
“Of course you can’t, poor baby,” she murmured softly. “Grief does terrible things to the mind. That’s why Lucas and I are here to take care of you. In fact, Lucas called me twenty minutes ago. He thinks it would be wonderful if we all had dinner together tonight. A quiet family meal. Dr. Evelyn is coming over too—she wanted to check your surgical incisions so you don't have to endure the stress of going back to the clinic.”
My stomach dropped through the floorboards.
Dr. Evelyn Ward was coming here. Tonight.
They weren't coming to check my incisions. They were coming to check my mental state. Marsha must have flagged the records inquiry at the hospital, or Evelyn’s automated alerts had triggered when the fetal registry was accessed. They were circling the wagons to see how much I suspected.
“That sounds... nice,” I managed to choke out. “It would be comforting to see Evelyn.”
“Good girl,” Brenda beamed, patting my cheek with two sharp, patronizing taps. “You just go back to bed and rest. I’ll prepare everything downstairs. And I told Lucas to pick up Toby from school so you don't have to worry about a thing.”
No.
Toby.
If they suspected anything, they would question Toby. If Lucas or Brenda pressured him, an eight-year-old boy couldn't hold up under their interrogation.
“Actually, Brenda,” I said, straightening up with forced casualness, “I was hoping to pick Toby up myself today. The school counselor said routine is important for him, and... I really need to see my son. I need some fresh air.”
Brenda’s smile froze for a fraction of a microsecond. The mask slipped just enough for me to see the cold calculation churning behind her eyes.
“Oh, Clara, I don't think that’s wise,” she said smoothly, stepping slightly closer, blocking the stairs. “You're in no condition to drive. You look terribly pale. What if you faint behind the wheel? Let Lucas handle it. He’s already left his office.”
She was keeping me locked down. She was isolating me.
“You’re right,” I murmured, lowering my head submissively. “I’m sorry. I’m just... so tired.”
“Go lie down, sweet girl,” Brenda purred, steering me gently toward my bedroom. “Mama Brenda will take care of everything.”
The moment she closed my bedroom door and her heels clacked down the stairs, I bolted to my nightstand. I grabbed my burner phone—an old prepaid device I kept in my emergency travel kit—and slipped it into the lining of my boot.
Then I walked over to the heating vent in the corner of the room. Our house had an old-fashioned central air system; the master bedroom vent shared a direct acoustic duct with the formal dining room below.
I crouched on the floor, pressing my ear against the metal slats.
Downstairs, the front door opened. Lucas was back.
“Is she asleep?” I heard Lucas whisper, his voice carrying clearly through the tin ductwork.
“She’s in bed,” Brenda replied sharply, dropping her sweet, grandmotherly tone entirely. “Did you speak with Evelyn?”
“Yes,” Lucas said, sounding agitated, the nervous tremor in his voice unmistakable. “Evelyn called me twenty minutes ago. Someone accessed the fetal transit registry in the St. Jude archive this morning. Evelyn wants to make sure Clara hasn't been snooping.”
“Clara doesn't know a thing,” Brenda hissed. “She’s completely broken. But we can’t take chances. Evelyn has a sedative injection prepared. We tell Clara it’s a vitamin booster for her post-hemorrhage recovery, give her a mild dose to keep her sleeping through the weekend, and finalize the secondary paperwork with the Sterling trust. By Monday, the funds will clear, and we’re untouchable.”
“And the baby?” Lucas asked, his voice cracking slightly. “She’s safe?”
“She’s at the Whispering Pines retreat with the private nurse,” Brenda snapped. “The Sterlings are taking custody on Sunday night at the gala. Pull yourself together, Lucas! You’re getting half a million dollars to clear your brokerage debts. Now act like a grieving father and go set the table!”
I pulled back from the vent, trembling from head to toe.
Whispering Pines retreat.
Sunday night.
My daughter was alive. She was breathing. She was thirty miles north of here, held in a private facility, waiting to be handed over like merchandise to a corrupt politician.
May you like
And they were planning to drug me tonight to keep me quiet.
I wiped the cold sweat from my palms. If they wanted a quiet dinner, I would give them a performance worthy of an Oscar.
