Chapter 7 - THE TOYS IN THE FRONT YARD
The rain started to fall as Chloe navigated her sedan through the dark, winding streets of the Chicago suburbs.
I sat in the passenger seat, my wet hands gripping the dashboard. I had given the police Sarah Jenkins’s last known address—a modest duplex on the West Side that she had rented when she worked for me. I had dropped off a baby gift there five years ago, before she abruptly quit and “moved away.”
“Are the police following us?” Chloe asked, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
“They’re two minutes behind,” I said, checking my phone. The detective had insisted on a tactical approach, fearing the mob collectors might already be there.
We pulled onto a quiet, tree-lined street. The streetlights flickered in the rain.
“That’s it,” I pointed to a small, blue duplex at the end of the cul-de-sac.
The front yard was littered with plastic toys. A red tricycle, a plastic sandbox, and a small basketball hoop. It looked like a normal, happy home.
But the front door was wide open.
“Stop the car,” I gasped.
Before Chloe could fully brake, I threw the door open and ran toward the house. The rain plastered my hair to my face. I didn't care about the danger. All I could think about was the little boy.
“Sarah!” I yelled, running up the concrete path.
I stepped into the living room. It was eerily quiet. Unlike my house, this place hadn't been torn apart. A half-eaten bowl of macaroni and cheese sat on the coffee table. The television was on, playing a muted cartoon.
“Sarah? It’s Margaret Wilson!” I called out, my voice shaking.
From the dark hallway leading to the bedrooms, a figure stepped out.
It wasn't a mob enforcer.
It was Sarah Jenkins.
She looked older, tired, but I recognized her instantly. She was holding a heavy cast-iron frying pan like a weapon. When she saw me, her eyes widened in absolute shock.
“Margaret?” she whispered, lowering the pan slightly. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“David is in jail, Sarah,” I said, walking slowly toward her so I wouldn't startle her. “The police found the money. The men he owes are looking for it, and they tore my house apart thirty minutes ago. You need to pack a bag right now. Where is Leo?”
Sarah burst into tears, dropping the heavy pan to the floor with a loud clang. She collapsed against the hallway wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the carpet, burying her face in her hands.
“They already took him,” she sobbed, rocking back and forth.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“What?” I knelt in front of her, grabbing her shoulders. “The mob took him? Sarah, tell me exactly what happened!”
“Not the mob!” Sarah cried, looking up at me with panicked, bloodshot eyes. “David took him!”
“David is in police custody!” I yelled, confused.
“He was here two hours ago!” Sarah wept. “Before he went to your retirement dinner! He burst in, frantic. He said the police were onto his business accounts. He grabbed Leo and said he was taking him to a safe house. He told me to pack my bags and wait for his call.”
My mind raced. Two hours ago. David had grabbed his son before coming to my retirement dinner. He had stashed the boy somewhere, packed the suitcase full of stolen mob money, and planned to run to Costa Rica with Leo, leaving me, Chloe, and Sarah behind to face the fallout.
“He kidnapped his own son,” Chloe whispered, standing in the doorway. She looked sick to her stomach.
“Where did he take him, Sarah?” I demanded, shaking her slightly. “Think! Did he mention a location? A hotel?”
“He said he was taking him to the old warehouse,” Sarah choked out. “The one his father used to own by the river. He said nobody ever goes there.”
I knew that warehouse. David’s father had used it for storage before he died. It had been abandoned for a decade.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The police were arriving.
“Chloe,” I said, standing up. “Tell the police to go to the river warehouse. David didn't just have a gun in that suitcase. He has a registered hunting rifle in the trunk of his car, and his car isn't at my house.”
“But David is in jail!” Chloe argued. “He can't hurt the boy!”
“David is in a holding cell,” I corrected, my heart pounding. “But if the mob finds out David was stashing his kid at the warehouse… they won't go after David. They’ll go after the boy to force David to give up the rest of the money.”
I didn't wait for the police to park. I ran out the back door of the duplex, cutting through the alley to where Chloe had left her keys in the ignition of her car.
I jumped into the driver’s seat. I had driven to that warehouse a hundred times when David’s father was alive. I knew the back roads. I could get there before the police, and before the mob.
As I sped toward the river, my phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
I glanced at the screen. It was an unknown number.
I hit speakerphone. “Hello?”
“Margaret,” a low, gravelly voice said. It wasn't David. It was a voice I had never heard before, cold and terrifying.
“Who is this?” I demanded.
“I’m the man your husband owes a million dollars to,” the voice said smoothly. “My men tell me your house was empty. But a little bird at the precinct told me your husband was arrested with a suitcase full of cash.”
“The police have it,” I said fiercely. “You won't get it from me.”
“I know the police have it,” the man chuckled darkly. “But David owed me two million, Margaret. And I just found his backup plan.”
The sound of a child crying echoed in the background of the call.
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“I’m at the river warehouse, Margaret,” the man said. “And I have little Leo. If you want him to live, you’re going to bring me the rest of the money your husband hid in your name. You have twenty minutes.”
TITLE: The Deed In The Sewing Box
