Part 2
You stand at the upstairs window with your hand clamped over your mouth, your whole body locked in that horrible place between panic and disbelief. Below, on the long circular drive in front of the mansion, three men in dark jackets have spread out just enough to look confident and just close enough to look dangerous. The one in the middle is taller than the others, with a hard jaw and the kind of stillness violent men mistake for power. In front of them stands Adrienne Hail, alone, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side like he has all the time in the world.
The butler, Mr. Vale, is beside you, pale in a way you’ve never seen on his careful face.
“Security is on the way,” he says.
But the problem with fear is that it never waits for backup. It races ahead of reason, pulling memories behind it like rusted chains. You barely hear him because the sight of those men on the drive has already cracked something open inside you. Your mind is back in cheap apartments, motel rooms with stained curtains, gas stations at midnight, borrowed phones, and all the miles you put between yourself and the last city where anyone knew your name.
One of the men pulls something metallic from his coat.
At first your mind screams gun. Then, through the blur of terror, you realize it is not a firearm. It is a silver rattle bracelet, tiny bells on a chain, cheap and bright. The kind of thing sold at markets and shoved into baby gift bags. The sight of it turns your blood to ice for a different reason.
