Chapter 6 - The Timestamp on the Glass
The ink of that single handwritten note—*Found you*—seemed to bleed into the glossy paper under the damp autumn air.
My fingers grew numb as I stared at the photo of Maya and Leo sitting innocently on the braided rug, playing with their wooden spoons. The timestamp printed in the bottom corner read 4:12 PM. Exactly six minutes ago. That meant whoever had taken the picture was not just watching from some distant car; they had been close enough to press a lens against our glass while I was standing right outside on the sidewalk with Adrian.
"She's here," I whispered, the panic clawing its way up my throat, choking off my breath. "Adrian, she’s already in the neighborhood. She’s watching us right now."
Adrian’s jaw locked, a muscle twitching sharply beneath his skin as he crumpled the photograph in his fist with terrifying force. The cold, calculating corporate titan of Chicago was gone; in his place stood a predator whose territory had just been breached.
"Get in the car, Clara," he ordered, his voice dropping into a low, absolute command that brooked no argument.
"No! My children are upstairs—"
"And they are unsafe for another second in this building," Adrian interrupted, pulling open the rear passenger door of the town car and gesturing urgently toward the interior. "If Celeste’s people have eyes on this window, they know the kids are inside. Every moment we waste arguing is a moment she closes the distance."
My mind raced through a frantic maze of terrifying choices. Miller was still upstairs, but an old baker with a rolling pin stood no chance against the kind of professional operatives Celeste’s family connections and wealth could buy. If I stayed, I risked a public confrontation that could put Maya and Leo directly in the crosshairs of my sister's unhinged vengeance. If I went with Adrian, I was walking back into the gilded cage I had spent three years escaping.
Before I could speak, a sharp, piercing shriek echoed from the window above us.
May you like
Maya’s terrified cry cut through the crisp air like a knife.
"Mama! The glass!"
