Chapter 2 - The Shadow in the Mirror
By 1:00 AM, the storm outside had reached its peak, wind howling against the reinforced glass windows of the estate.
In the guest room, the air was warm and smelled of lavender and clean wool. Toby’s fever had finally broken, dropping to a manageable 99.4 degrees after a small dose of infant fever reducer and two hours of constant cold compresses. He was now fast asleep in a white wooden crib that Mrs. Gable had pulled out from the attic storage—a remnant from when Drew’s late sister had visited years ago.
Sarah sat in a plush armchair beside the crib, wrapped in a large cashmere sweater that swallowed her tiny frame. Her hair was clean and damp, drying in soft dark curls around her face.
Drew sat at the small writing desk across the room, a laptop open in front of him, though he hadn't typed a word in an hour.
"He's breathing better," Sarah whispered, breaking the long silence.
Drew looked up from his screen. "He is. Mrs. Gable is a miracle worker."
"Thank you," Sarah said, her voice small, almost lost in the soft hum of the house's climate control. She held a mug of warm milk between her hands, staring down into the white liquid. "For not calling the police."
Drew pushed his chair back and walked over, sitting on the foot of the guest bed near her chair.
"Sarah," he said quietly, his expression serious. "We need to talk about what happens next. You're a child. You can't live in parking lots, and Toby needs proper medical care from a pediatrician."
Sarah immediately grew rigid, her fingers tightening around the porcelain mug until her knuckles turned white. "You said just for tonight. You said we could figure it out tomorrow."
"I am trying to figure it out," Drew said gently. "To help you, I need to know the truth. Who are you running from?"
Sarah lowered her head. A tear fell from her lashes, splashing into the milk. "If I tell you, you'll give us back to him."
"Him?" Drew caught the detail instantly. "Who is 'him'?"
Sarah took a shaky breath, her small chest heaving under the oversized sweater. "Our stepfather. His name is Marcus. Marcus Kane."
Drew’s eyes narrowed slightly. The name sounded distantly familiar, ringing a vague bell in the back of his corporate mind, but he kept his focus on the girl. "What did Marcus do?"
"When Mom died six months ago..." Sarah’s voice cracked, and she paused to swallow the lump in her throat. "Mom had an illness. Before she died, she made a paper. A will. She left everything to me and Toby. But Marcus took the paper. He said Toby wasn't Mom's real baby, that he was going to send Toby to a state nursery in another city and sell our house."
"Sell your house?" Drew asked. "Where do you live?"
"We lived in Oakridge," she said. "In the big stone house near the lake. But Marcus brought men into the house. Bad men. They talked loud and looked for papers in Mom's desk. One night, I heard Marcus on the phone saying he was going to 'get rid of the infant' so he could claim the full insurance policy."
A cold, dangerous rage began to ignite in Drew’s chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced in years.
"So you took Toby and ran," Drew said.
"I took Toby's diaper bag and my backpack," Sarah whispered. "I walked to the bus station. We've been hiding in cars and park restrooms for two weeks. I tried to buy milk with Mom's emergency money, but a man took my purse three days ago."
Drew stared at her. A ten-year-old girl, carrying a six-month-old infant, surviving on the streets of a major metropolitan city for fourteen days without a single adult offering help.
"Where is your stepfather now?" Drew asked.
"He’s looking for us," Sarah said, terror flashing in her dark eyes. "He has pictures of us on his phone. He offered money to the homeless people near the shelter if they found us."
Drew stood up, taking a slow, deep breath to control the rising temper in his chest. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out into the sheet of rain covering the bay.
"Sarah," Drew said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet, absolute steel. "Nobody is taking Toby from you. And nobody is taking you back to Marcus Kane."
"Do you promise?" she asked, her voice small and desperate.
Drew turned back to face her, meeting her gaze with total conviction. "On my life."
What Drew didn't know at that moment was that thirty miles away, in a dimly lit office in the financial district of Chicago, a man named Marcus Kane was staring at a glowing laptop screen.
On the screen was a GPS tracking ping—a ping coming from a small, concealed micro-tracker sewn into the lining of Sarah’s faded yellow backpack, which was currently sitting on the floor of Drew Mercer’s guest room.
May you like
Marcus Kane smiled, taking a drag from his cigar.
"Found you, you little rat," Kane muttered, picking up his phone to dial a private security contractor. "Get the boys ready. She's up in Pine Ridge, staying with some rich bastard."
