Chapter 4 - THE GHOSTS WE KEEP
The ride to the estate was suffocating.
Del sat in the back of the armored SUV, the tinted windows hiding the rainy city outside. Sloan sat beside her, his physical presence overwhelming the small space. His hand hovered near hers on the leather seat, wanting to touch her, but holding back.
Bishop drove. Every time Del looked in the rearview mirror, she met his cold, dead eyes.
She had to play this perfectly. She had to protect her baby.
“Cora is stable,” Sloan said softly, checking a message on his encrypted phone. “The doctors said the epinephrine saved her life. You saved her.”
“I did what anyone would do,” Del muttered, keeping her voice flat.
“No, you did what a brilliant nurse would do.” Sloan finally closed the distance, his hand gently covering hers. “Why did you run, Delphine? Truly? If you thought I wanted you dead, why didn’t you go to the police?”
Del stared at Bishop’s reflection. “Because the police work for the people who want me dead.”
Bishop’s eyes flicked away from the mirror, back to the road.
“When we get to the estate, we need to talk about the dossier you saw,” Sloan said, his voice dropping lower, meant only for her. “Someone forged my handwriting. Someone close to me.”
Answer One, Open Two.
Someone close. Bishop. But who was Bishop working for? He was just a muscle. He wasn’t smart enough to orchestrate a long-con forgery and infiltrate Sloan’s accounts.
The heavy iron gates of the Marchetti estate swung open. The imposing stone mansion loomed in the darkness, a fortress of secrets.
Sloan helped her out of the SUV. The moment her feet touched the driveway, the heavy oak front door opened.
Del froze.
Standing in the doorway was a little boy in superhero pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He had messy dark hair and pale skin.
“Leo?” Del whispered, the world tilting on its axis.
Leo was her five-year-old nephew. When Del’s sister died, Del took him in. When Del fled eight months ago, she had hidden Leo with a trusted friend in a different state, terrified the mob would target him too.
How was he here?
“Auntie Del!” Leo screamed. He bolted down the steps, his bare feet slapping the wet pavement, and crashed into her legs.
Del dropped to her knees, weeping, wrapping her arms around the boy. “Leo. Oh my god, Leo.”
Sloan stood over them, looking confused. “You didn’t know he was here?”
Del looked up, tears streaming down her face. “I hid him in Ohio. How did he get here?”
Sloan’s expression darkened. “Bishop found him wandering a train station three days after you died. A note was pinned to his jacket saying you didn’t want him anymore.”
Del looked at Bishop, who was standing by the car, his face an impassive mask.
He was using her nephew as leverage.
Leo pulled back from Del’s chest. He reached into his pajama pocket. “Auntie Del, the scary man told me to give this to you when I saw you.”
Leo unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to her.
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It was a child’s drawing of a car driving off a bridge into the water. But at the bottom, written in sharp, elegant adult handwriting, were the words:
Tell him the truth about the baby, or the boy goes swimming.
