Chapter 9 - Theodore Is Gone
There are kinds of fear that don't feel like fear.
They feel like death.
I had left Theodore for twelve minutes with a hospital childcare attendant while speaking to investigators.
When I returned, his stroller was empty.
The attendant was unconscious.
A message waited on my phone.
Bring the will. Come alone.
I screamed until my throat hurt.
Police traced the message.
Nothing.
Raymond heard the commotion.
When I entered his room, he knew.
“Theodore?”
I couldn't speak.
Raymond tried to sit up.
His body failed him.
“Christopher.”
I nodded.
Something changed in Raymond.
For weeks, he had fought to survive.
Now he fought to stand.
He pushed against the mattress.
“Stop,” I said.
“No.”
“Raymond—”
“No.”
He swung one leg toward the edge of the bed.
His muscles trembled violently.
I tried to help.
He collapsed against me.
“Again,” he said.
It was madness.
It was also the first time Raymond Winslow stood in months.
Only for two seconds.
Only with my arms supporting him.
But he stood.
Police eventually traced Christopher through a traffic camera.
He was heading toward the Winslow estate.
The same house where everything had begun.
I understood why.
He wanted the original will.
And he believed I would bring it.
The police wanted me nowhere near the mansion.
I agreed.
Then Raymond said, “Use me.”
Everyone turned.
Christopher believed Raymond remained almost completely paralyzed.
He didn't know how much he had recovered.
Raymond looked at me.
“He wants control.”
Evelyn understood.
“So we let him believe he can still get it.”
The plan was dangerous.
But Theodore was inside that house.
There was no version of the world in which I waited safely somewhere else.
By midnight, I was standing again before the iron gates.
The mansion rose beyond them.
Dark.
Silent.
I carried an envelope containing a copy of the will.
A listening device was hidden beneath my coat.
Raymond waited with police several blocks away.
I entered alone.
Christopher stood at the top of the staircase.
And Theodore was in his arms.
“Hello, Nora.”
“Give me my son.”
“Give me the will.”
I raised the envelope.
Christopher smiled.
Then a voice came from the darkness behind me.
“You always were impatient.”
Christopher’s face changed.
I turned.
Raymond Winslow stepped through the doorway.
Standing.
Weak.
Supported by a cane.
But standing.
Christopher stared at the man he had tried to bury alive.
May you like
And for the first time—
he looked truly terrified.
