Chapter 5 - The Confession of Margaret Hale"Boss, we can't go alone," Marcus said immediately, his face dark with fury and concern. "It's a textbook execution trap. They want you out in the open where they can drop a sniper round through your skull and seize control of the entire Vale organization while the lieutenants are fighting over the vacuum."
Adrian didn't answer. He turned on his heel and began walking briskly back toward the waiting G63.
"Adrian!" Marcus grabbed his shoulder. "Listen to me! We lock down the city, we mobilize every loyal soldier we have—"
"No," Adrian interrupted, turning to face his oldest friend. His eyes weren't panicked; they were terrifyingly clear. "If we mobilize, they kill Lily in the first five minutes. They want me alone at St. Jude's because they think my grief makes me stupid. Let them think that."
"Then let me go in your place—"
"They asked for me, Marcus." Adrian climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the heavy door shut. "Get back to the estate. Secure Rachel and Emma. Find out who else in the house was helping Vanessa."
"What about you?"
Adrian threw the transmission into reverse, tires spitting gravel as the G63 spun around in a violent arc.
"I'm going to pay a visit to someone who has been living in my guest house for fifteen years," Adrian said coldly. "Margaret Hale."
Fifteen minutes later, the G63 skidded to a halt outside the servants' quarters at the rear of the Lake Forest estate.
Margaret Hale—Vanessa’s mother, the woman who had served as head housekeeper for nearly two decades, the woman whom Claire had trusted like a second mother—was sitting calmly on the wooden porch rocking chair, knitting a pale blue sweater under the fading twilight.
She didn't look up as the heavy SUV doors slammed shut.
Adrian walked up the wooden steps, his shadow falling completely over her rocking chair.
Margaret slowly stopped knitting. She laid the needles down in her lap, raised her head, and looked up at the most feared man in Chicago without a single trace of fear in her eyes.
"You're back early, Mr. Vale," Margaret said softly, her voice steady and smooth. "I was just finishing Lily’s winter sweater. Such a shame about the French doors in the living room. The glass cost a fortune, I imagine."
Adrian stared down at her, his hand resting casually near his holster.
"Where is your daughter, Margaret?"
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Margaret smiled—a thin, sad, knowing smile that made Adrian’s blood run cold.
"My daughter is exactly where she needs to be, Mr. Vale," Margaret said, her voice dropping into a register that sounded chillingly like the woman on the voice recording. "Just like your wife was eleven years ago. You thought you built a fortress, Adrian. But you forgot... the people who clean your floors are the ones who hear your secrets."
