Chapter 5 - Shadows in the City of Angels
Three days later, I was discharged from the hospital. The media circus outside the medical center was staggering; reporters, camera crews, and paparazzi jammed the sidewalks, shouting questions about the Callahan indictment, the federal raids, and the dramatic baby shower assault that had shocked the nation.
With the help of Agent Vance and a tactical transport team provided by the FBI, Emma and I slipped out through the subterranean loading dock into an unmarked black SUV. We were driven not to a temporary safehouse, but to a secure, gated coastal property in Malibu that belonged to a federal witness protection asset who was currently overseas.
It was a stunning, modern glass house perched right above the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set in a brilliant blaze of orange and purple.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma breathed, setting her bags down in the minimalist, sunlit master bedroom. “It feels like a million miles away from Beverly Hills.”
“It’s safe,” I corrected, standing by the glass wall with my hand resting gently on my swollen belly. Ethan was kicking rhythmically, responding to the low, steady rumble of the ocean below. “And right now, safety is our only currency.”
That evening, as Emma cooked a simple dinner in the sleek chef’s kitchen, my phone—a secure burner device provided by Agent Vance—buzzed violently against the marble island.
I picked it up and stared at the glowing screen. An unknown, restricted number.
I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“You think you’ve won, don't you?”
The voice sent a sudden, icy shiver straight down my spine. It wasn’t Tyler, and it wasn’t Richard. It was raspy, cold, and dripping with a calculated menace that belonged to the dark underbelly of Los Angeles.
“Who is this?” I demanded, keeping my voice steady and refusing to let the fear show in my tone.
“Someone who knows that eighty million dollars is only half of the Callahan portfolio,” the voice hissed softly. “There’s another fund, Natalie. A dark fund tied to real estate developments in downtown core districts. Your little federal friends missed it. And if you don't call off your investigation by midnight tomorrow, that fund is going to be used to make sure neither you nor your precious unborn baby ever see the sunrise.”
My breath caught in my throat, but the steel inside me—forged on the marble floor of the Beverly Hills estate—refused to bend.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I whispered back, stepping closer to the glass wall to look out at the dark, crashing waves. “Tell whoever is paying you that I didn't spend four years enduring their abuse just to be threatened by a coward on a burner phone. If there’s another fund, I’ll find it. And if you come near my son, I won't just hand you over to the FBI—I’ll deliver you to them myself.”
I hung up before they could reply, slamming my thumb down on the disconnect button. My hands were trembling slightly, not from weakness, but from the electric rush of a predator realizing the hunt was far from over.
Emma walked into the living room holding a plate of pasta, pausing when she saw the pale intensity of my face. “Nat? Who was that?”
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I looked up at my sister, my jaw tightening into an unyielding line.
“It was just a ghost,” I said quietly. “And it’s time to put it in the ground.”
