Vincent drove as though every second had become a debt he was required to repay.
The security vehicle followed close behind, its headlights flashing across the highway. I sat beside him with my phone pressed against my knee, listening to the unanswered calls from the medical facility. Lucas and Leo were supposed to be protected there. The entire reason for moving them had been to get them away from the mansion.
Now the message had come from inside.
“Call again,” Vincent said.
“I already have.”
“Again.”
I dialed.
This time someone answered.
“Moretti Medical Pavilion.”
“This is Claire Morgan. Put me through to the pediatric ward.”
“I'm sorry, the ward is temporarily—”
“Put me through now.”
The receptionist hesitated.
Then the line went dead.
Vincent glanced at me.
“What did she say?”
“That the ward is temporarily unavailable.”
He accelerated.
His security chief called from the vehicle behind us.
“Mr. Moretti, we've lost contact with the facility's internal security team.”
Vincent's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“How long?”
“Seven minutes.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
“We've been trying to confirm it.”
“Confirm it faster.”
I watched the city lights slide across the windshield.
Seven minutes.
Seven minutes was long enough for someone to enter two children's rooms.
Long enough to disconnect a monitor.
Long enough to move them.
Long enough to make a terrible decision irreversible.
I refused to say any of those thoughts aloud.
Vincent seemed to be thinking them anyway.
When we reached the facility, the front entrance stood open.
That was the first thing that frightened me.
A medical facility that expensive did not leave its main doors unattended at night.
The second thing was the silence.
No nurses hurried through the lobby.
No television played behind the reception desk.
No phones rang.
The security cameras were still mounted in their usual places, but their indicator lights were dark.
Vincent drew his phone.
“Everyone inside.”
Four guards moved ahead.
I followed despite his earlier warning.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
“I will.”
The elevator doors opened.
The corridor smelled of disinfectant.
Too clean.
Too empty.
We reached the pediatric floor.
A nurse was lying unconscious beside the medication station.
Vincent stopped.
I rushed toward her.
“She has a pulse.”
The security chief knelt beside her.
“Call emergency services.”
Vincent ran toward the boys' rooms.
The doors were open.
Lucas's bed was empty.
Leo's was empty too.
Their blankets lay on the floor.
For one terrible second, Vincent simply stood there.
Then he noticed the window.
Closed.
The bathroom.
Empty.
The hallway.
Empty.
“They're gone.”
I saw something beneath Leo's pillow.
A folded piece of paper.
I picked it up.
There were only four words.
Dad, don't trust Richard.
Vincent stared at the handwriting.
“That isn't Lucas's.”
“No.”
“It isn't Leo's either.”
I turned the paper over.
Nothing.
Then the security chief shouted from the corridor.
“Mr. Moretti!”
We ran.
A service elevator had been stopped between floors.
The doors were partly open.
Inside was a medical transport chair.
On it lay one of the boys' blue blankets.
Vincent touched it.
His face became empty.
“Find them.”
The guards split up.
I noticed a faint trail on the floor.
Not blood.
Something white.
Powder.
I crouched.
“What's this?”
The security chief looked at it.
“Sedative residue, maybe.”
Vincent's voice came from behind me.
“They were drugged.”
“Possibly.”
He looked at the empty elevator.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Where are my sons?”
A man's voice replied.
“You should have listened to your wife.”
Vincent went rigid.
“Who is this?”
“You spent four years blaming yourself for Isabella's death.”
“Where are the boys?”
“You never asked the right question.”
“Where are they?”
The caller laughed quietly.
“Why did Isabella hire the investigator?”
Vincent's expression changed.
“To find you?”
“No.”
“To find Harrison?”
“No.”
The caller paused.
“To find out who was paying Harrison.”
The line went dead.
Vincent stared at the phone.
I felt the same realization arrive at the same time.
Harrison had not been acting alone.
Richard had admitted helping him.
But someone else had been paying Harrison.
Someone with enough money and influence to make records disappear.
Someone who had access to the Moretti business network.
Someone Isabella had apparently been investigating before she died.
Vincent whispered a name.
“Thomas.”
I looked at him.
“Who is Thomas?”
“My father.”
The words hung between us.
Vincent explained as we moved through the service corridor.
Thomas Moretti had officially died six years earlier.
But before his death, he had controlled the family's original business empire.
He had been ruthless.
Controlling.
He had also hated Isabella.
“He thought she was pulling me away from the family,” Vincent said.
“Did he have access to your companies?”
“Before his death.”
“And after?”
Vincent stopped walking.
“His estate did.”
“Who controls it?”
“My younger sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Caroline.”
The name seemed to carry weight.
Vincent rarely mentioned her.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
His security chief approached.
“We found a vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Underground loading area.”
We followed him.
A black medical transport van stood with its rear doors open.
Inside were two child-sized restraints.
And a phone.
Vincent picked it up.
The screen showed a single photograph.
Lucas and Leo.
They were sitting in a room I didn't recognize.
Both were conscious.
Both looked frightened.
A timestamp showed the photograph had been taken twelve minutes earlier.
Vincent nearly dropped the phone.
A second message appeared.
Come alone.
“No,” I said.
Vincent looked at me.
“They have my sons.”
“And that's exactly why they expect you to make a mistake.”
“What choice do I have?”
“Think.”
He stared at the photograph.
I pointed toward the children's faces.
“They're alive.”
“Yes.”
“They want something from you.”
He understood.
“If they wanted them dead, they wouldn't send a picture.”
The security chief nodded.
“We can trace the phone.”
“Do it.”
The phone was connected to a temporary network.
The trace jumped between locations.
Then settled.
A warehouse.
An old Moretti property in Bridgeport.
Vincent knew it immediately.
“That building was sold.”
“Apparently not.”
He looked at me.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“If they're using the boys to control you, you need someone beside you who isn't emotionally compromised.”
He stared at me.
“You think you're not emotionally compromised?”
“I care about them.”
“So do I.”
“That is exactly my point.”
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Vincent nodded.
We went.
The warehouse stood near the river, its windows dark.
Security surrounded it.
Vincent entered first.
The interior was empty.
No boys.
No kidnappers.
Only a chair in the center of the floor.
On the chair was another envelope.
Vincent opened it.
Inside was a photograph of Isabella.
Taken the day before her accident.
She was standing beside a woman.
I recognized the woman immediately.
Caroline Moretti.
Vincent's sister.
On the back, Isabella had written:
She knows what happened to me.
Vincent closed his eyes.
His sister had not been mentioned in any of the evidence.
Not once.
Yet she had been standing beside Isabella shortly before Isabella died.
A sound came from behind us.
Footsteps.
We turned.
Caroline stepped from the darkness.
She looked older than the photographs I had seen.
She was not holding a weapon.
She was crying.
“Where are my nephews?” Vincent demanded.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“You don't understand.”
“I understand enough.”
Caroline shook her head.
“No. You don't.”
She looked at me.
“Claire, you have to believe me.”
“I don't believe people simply because they cry.”
Her expression tightened.
“That is exactly what Isabella said.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“What happened to my wife?”
Caroline looked at him.
Then she whispered:
“She wasn't killed in the accident.”
Vincent froze.
“She survived.”
The warehouse seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
Caroline continued.
“Harrison found her alive.”
Vincent's voice became almost inaudible.
“What did he do?”
Caroline looked away.
“He took her somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“Then why did you help him?”
Caroline began crying harder.
“Because he threatened the boys.”
Vincent stared at her.
“What happened to Isabella?”
Caroline finally looked at him.
“She escaped.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“Where is she?”
Caroline swallowed.
“I don't know.”
A phone began ringing somewhere inside the warehouse.
Caroline flinched.
Vincent looked around.
The sound stopped.
Then another phone rang.
This time, it was in my pocket.
I answered.
A woman's voice spoke.
“Claire?”
I couldn't breathe.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it only once.
In an old recording.
Isabella.
“If Vincent is with you,” she said, “tell him the boys are not the real target.”
The line went silent.
Then she added one final sentence.
“They are using his sons to make him open the account.”
Click Here to continue read next: PART6: Isabella’s Voice Returns From the Past With a Warning, Forcing Vincent to Choose Between His Fortune and the Children He Nearly Lost
The New Nanny Notices a Strange Detail in the Mansion That Every Specialist Before Her Somehow Managed to Miss
Part 5 of 8
