Chapter 4 - THE OTHER PRISONER

Catherine nearly broke through the interview-room door.

“What other prisoner?”

Nolan refused to answer.

Naomi had him removed.

Back in the penthouse, Catherine paced so quickly I thought she might wear a path into the carpet.

“There was another locked wing at the estate,” she said. “I heard someone crying once. A woman.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“No. They moved me whenever anyone important came.”

Naomi placed a map on the table.

“Where was the estate?”

Catherine pointed to the northern hills.

“I never saw a road sign. But there was an old church bell every morning at seven, and freight trains at night.”

Luis opened satellite maps.

Within minutes, we narrowed the location to a rural corridor near Bellweather.

Then Catherine suddenly touched one property.

“There.”

An abandoned rehabilitation center called Hawthorne Ridge.

Owned by a shell company.

The shell company traced back to a law firm that had represented my mother for twenty-three years.

Naomi ordered a surveillance team.

I looked at the clock.

The board dinner started in thirty minutes.

Catherine stared at me.

“You’re still going?”

“Yes.”

She stepped close.

“You don’t understand her. When she thinks she’s losing control, she becomes dangerous.”

“I understand her better than I ever wanted to.”

I changed into a dark suit.

Before leaving, I looked at Penelope sleeping in Catherine’s arms.

“Nothing happens to either of you tonight.”

Catherine gave me a tired, sad smile.

“You can’t promise that.”

“No.”

I touched her cheek gently.

“But I can promise I’m done letting her decide what happens to us.”

At Kincaid Tower, the boardroom glowed above the city.

My mother sat at the head of the table.

Silver hair perfect. Pearls at her throat. A glass of white wine beside her hand.

She smiled when I entered.

“Late.”

“Traffic.”

Her eyes searched my face.

Then she turned to the board.

“Before dinner, we have one urgent matter.”

A folder slid toward me.

Inside was a proposal declaring me mentally unfit to remain CEO because of “prolonged grief-related instability.”

I looked up.

Daria smiled softly.

“We’re voting tonight, Samuel.”

I scanned the signatures.

Seven directors.

Five had already signed.

My mother leaned close enough that only I could hear.

“You should have stayed at the hotel.”

Then her phone vibrated.

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