Chapter 4 - The Clock Strikes FiveThe digital clock on the sleek marble desk read 5:45 AM.
Outside, the snowstorm had cleared, leaving downtown Columbus buried under a blanket of crisp, untouched white that reflected the pale light of the approaching dawn.
Inside the penthouse suite, Nora was fast asleep in the guest bedroom. Julian had carried her in hours earlier. She wore one of his oversized cotton t-shirts as a nightshirt, and her wet clothes were drying in the laundry unit.
Julian sat at the mahogany conference table, a cup of black coffee cooling beside him. On the massive wall-mounted screen before him, the security footage from the Vance residence looped silently: Cynthia Vance’s face twisting in cruelty, the heavy door slamming, the snow falling on the child's thin green sweater.
Hannah walked in from the kitchen carrying two fresh cups of coffee. “The car just pulled into the garage basement. David Vance is in the back seat. He thinks there’s a major inventory discrepancy or a security breach at the facility. He looks terrified.”
“Good,” Julian said without looking up. “He needs to be awake.”
A soft chime echoed through the penthouse as the private elevator doors opened. Heavy, hesitant footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor.
David Vance stepped out of the elevator, looking thoroughly out of place. He wore a high-visibility yellow safety vest over a stained flannel work shirt, his steel-toed boots scuffed with warehouse dust. His hair was messy, and deep, dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He looked like a man running on pure caffeine and stress.
“Mr. Mercer?” David breathed, blinking in confusion as he looked around the luxurious penthouse, then spotted Julian sitting at the table, flanked by an elderly woman he didn't recognize. “I... I’m sorry. The driver said there was an emergency at the Grove City plant. Is there a fire? A break-in?”
“Sit down, David,” Julian said, gesturing to the chair directly across from him.
David didn't move. He stood frozen, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Look, Mr. Mercer, if this is about my shift metrics or the loading dock delays last week, I swear I’ve been working overtime to fix them. My wife—Cynthia—she’s been sick with worry because I’ve been pulling so many night shifts, but we needed the extra money for—”
“David,” Julian interrupted, his voice cutting through the man’s anxious rambling like a scalpel. “Your shift metrics are fine. There is no fire at the warehouse.”
David frowned, his brow furrowing in deep bewilderment. “Then why am I here at six in the morning? How do you even know who I am?”
Julian didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached out, picked up a remote control, and pressed a single button.
The massive wall-mounted screen behind Julian suddenly flickered to life.
The glowing lights of the suburban Christmas tree appeared on screen. Then, the camera angle shifted to the front porch. A timestamp appeared in the corner: December 24, 8:24 PM.
David watched, confused, as the screen showed his front door opening. He saw his wife, Cynthia, wearing her red velvet dress and pearl earrings, stepping out onto the porch.
And then he saw Nora.
David’s breath caught in his throat. He took a sharp, jagged step toward the screen, his eyes widening in total disbelief.
“What... what is this?” David whispered, his voice cracking. “Nora? Why is Nora outside? Why does she have her bag?”
On the screen, Cynthia’s voice echoed through the silent penthouse speakers, crisp and cruel: “You ruined dinner, embarrassed me in front of my family, and made your brother cry... Go somewhere else until your father gets home. Maybe the cold will help you think about what you’ve done.”
Thud. The heavy front door slammed shut.
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David froze. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He stared at the screen as the video continued, showing the eight-year-old girl standing alone in the twenty-degree snow, clutching her stuffed rabbit, while the porch light buzzed overhead.
“No,” David choked out, stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of the mahogany table. “No, that... that’s a mistake. Cynthia wouldn’t... she told me Nora wanted to sleep at her friend's house. She told me Nora packed a bag because she wanted a sleepover for Christmas Eve!”
