Chapter 3 - The Call
The realization that Elena was alive, that she had orchestrated her own death and was now trying to steal our son, broke me. But it was a clean break. The grief vanished, replaced by a terrifying, icy clarity. I had to protect Leo.
At 2:00 AM, my cell phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. Unknown Caller ID.
I stared at it for three rings before sliding my thumb across the screen. I didn't speak.
“Mark.”
The voice came through the speaker, crystal clear. My blood turned to freon.
“Elena,” I said, my voice barely a rasp.
“Drop the charges against my father tomorrow morning,” she said. There was no emotion in her voice. No guilt, no warmth. Just a business transaction. “If you don’t, the men I have watching the house right now will burn it to the ground with you and Leo inside.”
I rushed to the window, peering through the blinds. Across the street, parked under a broken streetlight, was a black SUV with tinted windows. It hadn't been there an hour ago. The patrol car was gone—shift change, or worse.
“Why?” I asked, gripping the phone so tight the plastic creaked. “Why did you fake your death? Why put us through hell?”
“Fifty million dollars, Mark. That’s why. The firm was going down, the feds were circling, and I wasn't going to spend my life in federal prison. I found a way out. I found a Jane Doe. I bought a medical examiner. It was perfectly executed.”
“And you just left us.”
“I left you. I was always coming back for Leo. He’s my blood. Now, be a smart man. Call Detective Vance. Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Richard comes home, and he brings Leo to me.”
“Over my dead body,” I snarled.
May you like
“That can be arranged,” Elena replied, and the line went dead.
I didn't call the police. I knew Vance couldn't protect us from a woman with fifty million dollars and a ghost’s advantage. I went to the hall closet, reached up to the top shelf, and pulled down the steel lockbox. Inside was my grandfather’s M1911 pistol. I loaded the magazine, shoved it into my waistband, and went to wake my son.
