A BOARDING PASS TO GENEVA

Lucy stared at the faded blue velvet box in the nurse’s hand.

The peaceful atmosphere that had just settled over the hospital room vanished, replaced by a sudden, chilling tension. Catherine stood up, her maternal instincts instantly flaring.

“Who left it?” Catherine demanded, stepping between the nurse and Lucy’s bed.

“I’m not sure, ma’am,” the nurse stammered, intimidated by Catherine’s sharp tone. “A courier dropped it off. He said it was cleared by the Thorne security detail.”

Lucy gently pushed her mother’s arm aside. “It’s alright, Mom. Hand it here, please.”

The nurse handed over the box and quickly exited the room.

Lucy held the small velvet box. It felt heavy. She ran her thumb over the worn fabric, then slowly clicked the latch open.

Inside, resting on yellowed silk, was a vintage silver baby rattle. It was beautifully crafted, engraved with intricate ivy vines. But it wasn’t the rattle that made Lucy’s blood run cold.

It was the small, handwritten note folded beneath it.

Lucy pulled the note out. The handwriting was erratic, pressed so hard into the paper that the pen had nearly torn through.

“You think you control the board, Lucille. But a king can always flip the table. Check the nursery.”

“What is it?” Catherine asked, seeing the color drain from her daughter’s face.

“It’s from James,” Lucy whispered.

“Impossible,” Catherine said immediately. “Elias just handed him over to the police in the service corridor. He’s in a squad car right now.”

Lucy shook her head, staring at the silver rattle. “Mom. This rattle… I bought this at an antique shop in SoHo three weeks ago. I put it in the baby’s nursery at our townhouse.”

Catherine’s eyes widened.

If the rattle was in the nursery, and James had just delivered it here via courier… that meant James hadn’t come to the hospital alone. He had orchestrated a distraction.

Lucy grabbed her phone from the bedside table and dialed her head of residential security at the townhouse.

It rang four times. Then, it went to voicemail.

“Mom, call Marcus,” Lucy ordered, the CEO authority returning to her voice, overriding the exhaustion of the hospital bed. “Tell him to lock down this floor. Nobody gets in or out.”

Before Catherine could dial, the hospital room’s television—the one Lucy had just used to watch James’s father get arrested—flickered back to life on its own.

The screen didn’t show the news. It showed the interior of the nursery at Lucy’s private townhouse.

The camera angle was from the corner of the ceiling. Standing in the middle of the room, looking directly up at the lens, was Delilah.

She wasn’t wearing her designer maternity clothes anymore. She wore a sleek black turtleneck and gloves. She was holding a heavy, iron crowbar.

“Hello, Lucy,” Delilah’s voice came through the hospital room’s speakers, slightly distorted. “James told me about your little audit. Very clever. But you made one mistake.”

Delilah walked over to the beautifully painted mural on the nursery wall.