Chapter 2 - The Camera's Lens and the Locked Door
The text message burned in Grace’s mind like a brand. She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the glass as her heart hammered against her ribs.
He knows who your husband is.
How? Her ex-husband, Evan, was a low-level account manager who had vanished into the suburbs of Ohio eighteen months ago. He was a nobody. Michael Hartford was a billionaire healthcare titan whose face appeared on Forbes. There was no connection. There couldn't be.
"Grace?" Michael’s voice pulled her back. He was still kneeling in the snow, his hand extended, his dark eyes filled with genuine concern. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I... I'm fine," Grace lied, her voice shaking as she quickly shoved the phone back into her pocket. She stood up, pulling Maya tightly into her arms. The little girl let out a soft moan, her hot cheek pressing against Grace’s shoulder. "Actually, Mr. Hartford, I think we should go home. The medicine is what we needed, and I don't want to intrude on your time."
Michael stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed the sudden, sharp shift in her demeanor. He was an expert at reading body language; he could tell when a negotiation had suddenly turned hostile.
"The wind is picking up, and Maya still has a fever," Michael said, his voice dropping into a firmer, more authoritative register. "My driver is parked right around the corner. Let us at least give you a ride home. I won't have it on my conscience that a sick child had to ride the public bus in a blizzard."
Grace looked across the street. The black SUV was still there, the dark lens of the camera catching the glint of the streetlights. If she got into Michael’s luxury car, what would those photos look like in a custody court?
“Unfit mother associates with wealthy benefactor while child is sick.”
Evan’s high-priced lawyers would tear her apart. They had been looking for any excuse to prove she was unstable so Evan could stop paying child support entirely—or worse, take Maya just to spite her.
"No, thank you," Grace said, her voice turning cold as she took a step back. "We'll take the bus. We're used to it."
"Grace, please—" Michael began, taking a step forward.
"I said no!" Grace snapped, her voice louder than she intended. Several people entering the hospital lobby turned to look.
Michael stopped. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, his expression softening. "I understand. I apologize if I pressed too hard. Please... just take care of her."
Grace didn't wait for him to say anything else. She turned on her heel and hurried toward the bus stop at the corner of the block, her boots slipping on the icy sidewalk. She didn't look back, but she could feel Michael’s gaze burning into her spine.
By the time she reached her cramped, third-floor apartment in the dilapidated brick building on 4th Street, the sun had set, leaving the city in a cold, blue twilight.
She immediately administered the medicine and the ear drops to Maya. Within fifteen minutes, the analgesic took effect, and the little girl’s whimpering stopped. She fell into a deep, peaceful sleep on their small futon, her forehead finally cool to the touch.
Grace sat at the kitchen table, the single overhead bulb flickering weakly. She pulled out her phone and stared at the warning message.
With a trembling finger, she typed:
“Who is this? How do you know my husband?”
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Just as she was about to set the phone down, it rang. The caller ID was blocked.
Grace swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and slid the bar to answer. "Hello?"
"Grace," a voice whispered. It was a woman’s voice, raspy, panicked, and muffled by what sounded like static. "You don't have much time. Michael Hartford isn't a savior. He’s the one who authorized the clinical trials at Memorial Hospital. The trials your husband worked on."
Grace’s breath caught. "Evan? Evan worked in marketing. He didn't do clinical trials."
"That’s what they wanted you to think," the woman gasped. "It was a cover. Evan was the lead data coordinator for Project Aethelgard—a pediatric drug trial that went horribly wrong. He stole the patient logs before he disappeared. He has the proof that Hartford’s new antibiotic is causing permanent hearing loss in children. Hartford is hunting him down, Grace. And he’s using you and Maya as bait."
Click.
The line went dead.
Before Grace could process the terrifying words, a heavy, rhythmic knocking echoed from her front door.
May you like
HOOK FOR NEXT CHAPTER:
Grace froze, her eyes darting to the locked door. The knocking came again, louder this time, causing the cheap wood frame to rattle. She crept to the peephole and looked through. Standing in the dimly lit hallway was Michael Hartford. But he wasn't wearing his expensive wool coat anymore. His suit was wrinkled, his tie was gone, and behind him stood two men in dark tactical gear, holding a heavy-duty bolt cutter.
