Chapter 3 - Someone Inside the House
Patrick Sloan had once brought Lily a stuffed rabbit.
That was the thought I couldn't get out of my head.
Not his job title.
Not the security system.
Not the file with my name on it.
The rabbit.
Three months earlier, Patrick had found me in the kitchen waiting for my shift to end.
He had asked about the photo on my phone.
“Your daughter?”
I'd smiled.
“Lily.”
“How old?”
“Two.”
He'd seemed kind.
Normal.
He asked where she went during my shifts, and I mentioned a daycare near Lincoln Park.
I didn't give the street.
I didn't need to.
There were only three daycares in the area that opened before six.
Now somebody had photographed Lily outside one of them.
Vincent ordered the estate locked down.
Not dramatically.
No alarms.
No shouting.
Doors simply stopped opening unless security approved them.
Staff were gathered in separate rooms.
Phones were collected.
Patrick Sloan could not be found.
“He left forty minutes ago,” Marco said.
Vincent stood behind the desk in his private office.
I sat near the fireplace.
Mrs. Russo remained beside me.
“Why wasn't he stopped?” Vincent asked.
“He used his clearance before we issued the lockdown.”
Vincent looked at the security monitor.
“Car?”
“Company sedan.”
“Track it.”
“Already dead.”
“What?”
“GPS unit disconnected six blocks from the estate.”
Vincent stared at him.
Marco understood that look.
“I'm handling it.”
He left.
I stood.
“I need Lily.”
Vincent looked at me.
“She'll be here soon.”
“I want to see her.”
“You will.”
“That isn't enough.”
He was quiet.
Then he picked up his phone.
“Bring the child directly to the west entrance. Claire will meet her there.”
He ended the call.
“Thank you.”
He gave a small nod.
I should have been terrified of him.
Part of me was.
But another part had begun noticing things that contradicted the stories.
He never raised his voice when everyone else expected him to.
He asked instead of grabbing.
He listened.
Those details meant more to someone like me than grand gestures ever could.
Lily arrived twenty-five minutes later.
I heard her before I saw her.
“Mommy!”
I ran.
She came through the side entrance carried by a woman from the daycare, accompanied by two of Vincent's security men.
I took her so fast she squealed.
I buried my face in her curls.
“Baby.”
“Mommy, big house!”
“Yes.”
She pulled back.
“You crying?”
“No.”
Lie.
She touched my cheek.
“Mommy sad?”
“Mommy's okay.”
Another lie.
Vincent stood several feet away.
Lily noticed him.
Children notice silence.
She studied him.
Vincent Moretti, a man capable of freezing a room with one look, looked uncertain in front of a two-year-old.
“Who dat?”
I almost smiled.
“That's Mr. Moretti.”
Lily waved.
“Hi, Mister Moretti.”
Vincent blinked.
Then, unexpectedly, waved back.
“Hello, Lily.”
She hid her face in my shoulder.
For the first time all day, I breathed.
Later, Mrs. Russo arranged a bedroom for us in the west wing.
I refused at first.
Vincent didn't argue.
He simply showed me the photograph again.
“You can leave if you want.”
I hated that sentence.
Because he meant it.
“And if Daniel's people are waiting outside?”
“Then my men will escort you wherever you choose.”
I looked at Lily asleep beside me.
I stayed.
That night, Vincent asked me to tell him everything.
Not because he was curious.
Because he was looking for patterns.
We sat in his library.
Marco stood near the windows.
Mrs. Russo stayed with Lily.
Vincent didn't interrupt while I talked.
Daniel and I had met when I was seventeen.
He was twenty-three.
He made me feel chosen.
Then dependent.
Then afraid.
By nineteen, he controlled my bank account.
By twenty, I had stopped seeing most of my friends.
The scars came over several years.
Not all at once.
A burn when dinner wasn't ready.
A cut when I tried to leave.
Marks from objects thrown hard enough to break skin.
The final night, Lily was six months old.
Daniel had been drinking.
He became angry because she wouldn't stop crying.
He moved toward the crib.
I stepped between them.
For the first time, I fought back.
I grabbed Lily and ran barefoot into the hallway.
A neighbor called police.
Daniel disappeared before they arrived.
Charges went nowhere.
He claimed I'd injured myself during an argument.
His family hired an attorney.
Mine didn't exist.
“So you left Chicago?” Vincent asked.
“For Wisconsin. Then Indiana. Then back here.”
“Why come back?”
“I thought he had moved to New York.”
Marco spoke.
“He did.”
I looked at him.
“For almost two years.”
Vincent tapped one finger against the arm of his chair.
“When did he return?”
“Four months ago.”
Two months after I started working here.
Coincidence?
I no longer believed in those.
“Did Daniel ever discuss logistics companies?” Marco asked.
“No.”
“Halstead?”
“No.”
“Patrick Sloan?”
I shook my head.
Vincent leaned forward.
“What did Daniel do for work when you knew him?”
“Sales. Consulting. Whatever paid. He changed jobs constantly.”
“Did he ever ask about your family?”
“My mother died when I was nineteen. My father before that.”
“Any siblings?”
“No.”
“Property?”
I almost laughed.
“Nothing.”
He studied me.
Something bothered him.
“What?”
“You're not valuable to Daniel financially.”
The words should have hurt.
They didn't.
They made sense.
“Then why photograph Lily?”
“To control you.”
“Control me into doing what?”
Nobody answered.
Then Marco's phone rang.
He stepped away.
When he returned, his expression had changed.
“We found Sloan's car.”
“Where?”
“Airport parking.”
“Flight?”
“No record.”
“So he wanted us to think he left.”
“Looks like it.”
Vincent stood.
“Search properties connected to him.”
Marco nodded.
Then glanced at me.
“There's something else.”
He handed Vincent a folder.
“Found in Sloan's office.”
Vincent opened it.
Photographs.
Me leaving the mansion.
Me picking up groceries.
Me carrying Lily.
Pictures dating back four months.
My knees weakened.
Then Vincent pulled out a document.
Birth certificate.
Lily's.
“Why does he have that?”
Marco answered.
“No idea.”
Vincent flipped another page.
Medical records.
Mine.
From the hospital after Daniel's final attack.
I felt exposed all over again.
Then came something I had never seen.
A photograph.
Daniel standing beside Patrick Sloan.
Taken years earlier.
“How old is this?”
Marco checked.
“Six years.”
I stared.
Daniel knew Patrick before I ever worked here.
Before Lily was born.
Before I left.
My memories suddenly rearranged themselves.
Daniel often knew things he shouldn't.
Where I'd gone.
Who I'd spoken to.
When I'd tried opening a bank account.
I had assumed he had friends.
Maybe one of them had been Patrick.
Vincent continued through the file.
Bank transfers.
Emails.
Then one handwritten note.
Marco read over his shoulder.
“She's connected.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Connected to what?”
Nobody knew.
An hour later, they found Patrick.
Not at the airport.
At an abandoned warehouse near the river.
Alive.
And terrified.
Vincent wanted him brought to the estate.
I asked to be there.
“No,” Vincent said.
“Why?”
“Because I don't know what he's going to say.”
“It's about me.”
“Exactly.”
I stared at him.
“I'm tired of people deciding what I can handle.”
He became still.
I realized I had challenged him in front of Marco.
Old Claire would have apologized.
I didn't.
After several seconds, Vincent nodded.
“Then you stay.”
Patrick was brought in near midnight.
He looked nothing like the friendly man from the kitchen.
His shirt was wrinkled.
One cheek bruised.
No one had touched him after finding him, Marco told us.
Someone else had.
Patrick sat at the dining table.
Vincent stood opposite him.
I remained beside the doorway.
Patrick saw me.
His face collapsed.
“Claire.”
“Why do you have pictures of my daughter?”
He closed his eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because Daniel made me.”
Vincent's voice was flat.
“How?”
Patrick looked at him.
“You think Mercer works for Halstead?”
Vincent said nothing.
“He doesn't.”
Marco stepped closer.
Patrick continued.
“Halstead works for him.”
Vincent's expression sharpened.
Patrick swallowed.
“Daniel has been building shell companies for years. Warehouses. trucking contracts. procurement firms. He launders money through legitimate distribution networks.”
“And you helped?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Seven years.”
I felt sick.
Daniel had been doing this while we were together.
Patrick turned toward me.
“You weren't supposed to be involved.”
“Then why follow me?”
“Because Daniel found out where you worked.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
My pulse jumped.
The same time he returned.
“He told me to watch you. That's all.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“And the file?”
Patrick looked at the table.
“That wasn't for Daniel.”
Silence.
“Who?” Vincent asked.
Patrick's hands began shaking.
“The man who was attacked last night.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
Patrick whispered the name.
“Ethan Cole.”
Marco swore softly.
I remembered Ethan.
One of Vincent's accountants.
Quiet.
Young.
Always carrying folders.
“He found something,” Patrick said. “Something Daniel had hidden years ago.”
Vincent's voice lowered.
“What?”
Patrick looked directly at me.
“A trust.”
I stared.
“What trust?”
“Your father's.”
My chest tightened.
“My father had nothing.”
Patrick shook his head.
“That wasn't true.”
The room went completely silent.
He continued.
“Your father owned twelve percent of a freight company before he died. Shares worth almost four million dollars today.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
“That's impossible.”
“Daniel knew.”
My blood turned cold.
“How?”
“He found the documents after your mother died.”
I remembered Daniel helping me empty her apartment.
Boxes.
Papers.
A locked drawer he insisted contained nothing important.
Patrick leaned toward me.
“He couldn't claim the shares directly. But if he married you, he thought he could control them.”
I couldn't breathe.
“We never married.”
“Exactly.”
“Then Lily?”
Patrick looked away.
Vincent noticed.
“What about Lily?”
Patrick's silence answered first.
Then he whispered.
“The trust transfers to Claire at twenty-five unless she dies before then.”
My birthday was in six weeks.
Patrick continued.
“If Claire dies before twenty-five, the assets pass to her legal heir.”
I looked toward the hallway where my daughter slept.
My hands went numb.
“And if Daniel establishes paternity…”
Patrick nodded.
“He can control Lily's inheritance.”
I felt Vincent move beside me.
Not toward Patrick.
Toward me.
Patrick began crying.
“I didn't know he would hurt the kid.”
“What did he ask you to do?” Vincent demanded.
“Track Claire. Track Lily. Find the trust documents Ethan discovered.”
Vincent's voice hardened.
“And last night?”
Patrick shook his head.
“I didn't attack Ethan.”
“Who did?”
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear.”
Then Patrick looked at me again.
“But I know one thing.”
“What?”
He swallowed.
“The photograph outside the daycare wasn't taken by Daniel's men.”
Vincent became still.
“Who took it?”
Patrick whispered,
“Someone from this house.”
Marco moved immediately.
“Name.”
Patrick looked toward the corridor.
His face had gone pale.
“He said if I told you, my family was dead.”
Vincent leaned closer.
“Your family is already under my protection.”
Patrick looked at him.
Then at me.
And finally said the name.
“Mrs. Russo.”
I stopped breathing.
From somewhere upstairs came the sound of a child crying.
Lily.
I turned toward the door.
Then I heard Mrs. Russo's voice.
“Claire?”
Soft.
Calm.
Coming from the staircase.
“Lily woke up.”
I looked at Vincent.
He looked at Patrick.
Patrick shook his head violently.
May you like
“Don't let her take the child.”
And suddenly the woman I trusted most in that mansion was standing upstairs with my daughter in her arms.
