Chapter 8 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
The next hour was a blur of calculated chaos.
Adrian didn't call the police. In our world, the police were too slow, and a hostage situation with Julian’s loyalists would only get the boy killed.
Instead, Adrian called his most trusted men. The ones Julian hadn't been able to buy.
Victoria gave them the address—an abandoned warehouse near the docks in upstate New York.
“I’m going with you,” Victoria demanded, her voice tight with terror.
“No,” Adrian said, loading a magazine into his pistol. “You’ll be a liability. You stay here with my mother. Marcus and his team are guarding the perimeter.”
Victoria looked like she was going to argue, but I stepped forward and took her hand.
“Let him do this, Victoria. Adrian doesn't fail.”
Adrian looked at me, a silent promise passing between us. Then, he was gone.
The house was agonizingly quiet.
Victoria sat at the dining table, staring at the child’s drawing. She smoothed out the wrinkles over and over again, her tears staining the crayon marks.
I made a fresh pot of tea.
I poured a cup and set it in front of her.
She looked up at me, her eyes bloodshot.
“Why are you being kind to me?” she whispered. “After everything I said to you. After how I treated you.”
I sat down across from her.
“Because I am a mother, too,” I said softly. “And I know that when your child is in danger, you become a monster to the rest of the world just to protect them.”
Victoria broke down, burying her face in her arms.
“I am so sorry, Eleanor,” she wept. “Julian made me practice being cruel to you. He said if I didn't push you away, Adrian would never let his guard down. I hated every word I said to you.”
“It’s over now,” I said, rubbing her back. “It’s over.”
We sat in silence for what felt like an eternity.
The grandfather clock chimed midnight.
Victoria jumped, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
“It’s midnight,” she panicked. “Julian didn't check in. They’re going to hurt him, Eleanor!”
Before I could comfort her, the heavy oak front doors burst open.
Footsteps echoed in the foyer.
Victoria screamed and ran toward the hallway.
I followed her, my heart in my throat.
Standing in the doorway, covered in rain and soot, was Adrian.
He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his suit jacket was torn.
But he wasn't alone.
In his arms, wrapped in a heavy blanket, was a little boy with dark curly hair.
“Leo!” Victoria screamed, falling to her knees.
Adrian knelt down and placed the boy on the floor.
Leo looked around, frightened, until his eyes locked onto his mother.
“Mommy!”
He ran into Victoria’s arms.
The sound of her sobbing as she held her child—burying her face in his neck, kissing his cheeks, rocking him back and forth—was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in this house.
Adrian stood up and walked over to me.
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a tight hug.
“He’s safe, Mom,” Adrian whispered. “Julian’s men are dealt with.”
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of rain on his coat.
“I’m so proud of you, Adrian.”
We had our happy ending. The family was safe. The boy was rescued.
But as I looked over Adrian’s shoulder, my blood turned to ice.
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Hanging on the wall behind the front door, an antique mirror reflected the dark driveway outside.
And standing in the rain, staring directly into the house, was a man in a black trench coat holding a silver cane.
