Chapter 7 - Three Empty Beds
I don't remember running upstairs.
I remember the nursery door.
I remember three blankets.
I remember screaming Camille's name.
Antoine became terrifyingly calm.
“Lock every gate.”
“They didn't leave through a gate,” Donovan said.
A service tunnel ran beneath the oldest part of the mansion.
Martin knew about it.
Security footage showed a housekeeper opening a basement door.
She had worked there twenty-two years.
Martin had paid her son's gambling debts.
She hadn't known children would be taken.
Martin had told her he needed documents.
We found the triplets' tracker bracelets in the tunnel.
Then my phone rang.
Martin.
“Della.”
“Where are they?”
“Alive.”
“If you touch them—”
“You're not threatening anybody.”
“I don't need to.”
He laughed.
“You're a waitress.”
There it was again.
The assumption.
Small people were harmless.
Soft people were stupid.
Women like me should be grateful to stand near power.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
Martin paused.
“I'll do whatever you want.”
Antoine stared at me.
I raised one finger.
Trust me.
Martin relaxed.
“I need Julian's phone.”
“I have it.”
“Bring it.”
“Where?”
He named an abandoned riverfront warehouse.
“Alone.”
“Okay.”
Antoine grabbed my arm after the call.
“No.”
“I won't be alone.”
“He'll search you.”
“Then don't put anything on me.”
Understanding reached Donovan first.
The warehouse had old municipal surveillance cameras.
Inactive.
But a nearby television station had installed rooftop cameras overlooking the river for hurricane coverage.
Renee knew someone there.
We didn't need Martin merely arrested.
We needed him talking.
And arrogant men talk when they believe nobody important is listening.
I entered alone.
Martin stood beside three chairs.
The children were unharmed.
Camille saw me.
“Mama!”
Every part of me wanted to run toward her.
I didn't.
Martin held a gun.
“Phone.”
I gave it to him.
A duplicate.
He checked it.
“Password?”
“Isabella.”
He smiled.
“Sentimental.”
“You murdered her.”
“She created inconvenience.”
My stomach turned.
“Why?”
“Because Antoine was going legitimate.”
He said it like a disease.
Maro Shipping had once survived on corruption.
Antoine's father tolerated it.
Antoine wanted legitimate contracts.
Audits.
Transparency.
Martin saw millions disappearing.
So he built his own operation.
Julian helped.
Isabella discovered it.
“Did you order her killed?”
Martin smiled.
“You heard the recording.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He stepped closer.
“Why?”
“Because I want to understand what kind of man kills the mother of three babies.”
“The practical kind.”
That was enough.
The rooftop camera captured video.
A directional microphone captured audio.
Federal agents heard everything.
But Martin noticed something.
A red reflection in the window.
Camera light.
His face changed.
“You.”
I ran toward the children.
He fired.
Antoine burst through the side entrance.
Chaos.
Agents swarmed.
Martin grabbed Camille.
Gun beneath her chin.
“Back!”
Everyone froze.
Camille cried.
Not loudly.
That was worse.
I began humming.
Four notes.
Her eyes found mine.
Martin shouted.
I kept humming.
Camille stopped struggling.
“Come here,” I whispered.
Martin looked toward me.
For one second, his gun shifted.
Donovan fired.
Not at Martin.
At the overhead light.
Darkness.
Camille dropped.
Antoine reached her.
Agents tackled Martin.
When the lights returned, all three children were in my arms.
Antoine knelt beside us.
Martin lay handcuffed ten feet away.
He looked at me with hatred.
“You think this ends with me?”
I stared at him.
“No.”
His smile returned.
“Good.”
Then he whispered:
“Ask Antoine what Isabella discovered about the diner.”
May you like
I looked at Antoine.
His face told me he knew exactly what Martin meant.
