Chapter 4 - The Vanishing Bride
Word count target: ~1,500 words
I stepped into the empty waiting area, my eyes fixing on the chair where Vanessa had been sitting just twenty minutes ago. On the small side table next to it sat a half-empty paper cup of coffee, still faintly steaming.
She had left in a hurry.
I rushed out the front sliding doors of the emergency room into the crisp night air. The hospital driveway was empty except for a parked ambulance and a security guard leaning against a pillar, sipping tea.
"Excuse me," I called out, hurrying toward him. "Did you see a tall woman with blonde hair leave in the last ten minutes?"
The guard blinked, pulling a notebook from his belt. "Yeah. High-end clothes, real pale? She jumped into a black SUV that was idling near the curb about five minutes ago. Ran red lights pulling out onto San Vicente."
"Did you get a license plate?"
"Didn't need to," the guard shrugged. "It was a private transport vehicle. Tinted windows. No front plate."
My stomach dropped. A private transport. Vanessa hadn't just panicked and taken an Uber; she had a getaway plan ready to deploy at a moment's notice.
I sprinted to my own car in the physician’s lot—a sleek black Bentley—and threw myself behind the wheel. My phone was already ringing before I even put the key in the ignition.
It was Marcus.
"Marcus, tell me you're at the house in East LA," I demanded, throwing the car into reverse and burning rubber as I tore out of the parking garage.
"We just pulled up, Mr. Whitmore," Marcus’s calm, gravelly voice came through the speakers. "House is quiet. We've secured the perimeter. I'm looking at the kid right now—he's safe inside with the neighbor."
A massive wave of relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. "Is there any sign of Vanessa or strangers in the area?"
"Negative. Street is dead. But boss... something else came up."
"What is it?"
"While we were en route, I had my team run a discreet sweep on Miss Vanessa’s primary bank accounts and personal logistics like you asked last week for the pre-nup audit." Marcus paused, the sound of papers rustling in the background. "Mr. Whitmore... her accounts were wiped clean two hours ago. Over four million dollars in cash moved into shell accounts in Grand Cayman. And thirty minutes ago, a private charter flight was booked out of Van Nuys Airport, heading for Cabo San Lucas."
"When does the flight leave?" I slammed my foot on the gas, weaving through the late-night traffic on Wilshire Boulevard.
"4:00 a.m.," Marcus replied. "That gives her less than an hour."
"She’s fleeing the country," I muttered, my mind racing. "Marcus, leave two guys with the boy and Maria's neighbor. You and Jenkins meet me at Van Nuys Airport immediately."
"On our way."
I hung up, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.
Vanessa wasn't just running. She was cutting her losses. But if Andrew was really alive, he wouldn't be waiting in Cabo. Cabo was a decoy, a classic misdirection to throw off law enforcement while the real operation took place somewhere else.
As I sped toward the airport, my phone chimed with an incoming text from an unknown, encrypted number.
I tapped the screen at a red light.
‘You were always the soft brother, Daniel. Leave it alone. Take care of the maid's kid, sign the insurance releases for the mirror, and forget you ever heard the name Noah. If you follow her, you won't like what you find.’
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The text wasn't from Vanessa.
The phrasing, the condescending tone, the reference to "the soft brother"—it was identical to the way my brother used to speak to me when we were younger. It was Andrew.
He was watching. He knew I was at the hospital. He knew what Maria had told me.
May you like
I dialed the encrypted number back immediately. It rang once, twice, and then a deep, familiar voice answered—a voice I hadn't heard in six long years. A voice I had wept over at an empty casket.
"Hello, big brother," Andrew said softly.
