Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Rose Garden
Julian bolted down the servant stairs, his polished shoes skidding on the raw hardwood. The manicured boxwood hedges of the estate’s lower terrace stretched out beneath the overcast morning sky. The salty wind from the nearby coastline whipped through the cypress trees, carrying the distinct scent of coming rain.
“Emma!” Julian shouted, his voice cracking against the wind.
Near the stone fountain, Emma stood frozen. Two men in utility uniforms were crouching near the perimeter gate, one holding a black canvas duffel while the other spoke softly into an earpiece. The man nearest Emma reached out with a plastic water bottle, smiling with false warmth.
“Come on, sweetheart,” the man said smoothly. “Your mom’s friend sent us to bring you to the hospital.”
Emma pulled back, clutching her teddy bear by its severed arm. “Daddy said to stay inside!”
“Emma, run!” Julian roared as he sprinted down the marble steps.
The two men reacted instantly. The closer man lunged forward, grabbing Emma’s pink coat sleeve. Emma shrieked, kicking wildly, her tiny sneaker catching the man across his shin. The sudden resistance gave Julian the two seconds he needed. He collided with the man like a battering ram, slamming him into the wrought-iron gate with a concussive thud.
The second man drew a baton from beneath his jacket, but before he could swing, the sharp blast of a sports car’s horn shattered the garden peace.
Elena’s silver convertible tore across the immaculate lawn, tires tearing deep trenches into the turf, coming to a screeching halt inches from the intruder’s legs. Elena slammed her hand against the horn again, lowering the tinted window.
“Get your hands off my husband’s property before I have the state troopers level this entire perimeter!” she yelled, her voice carrying the icy authority of old New England money.
The man with the baton hesitated, swore under his breath, hauled his groaning partner off the grass, and scrambled through the side gate into the idling van. The vehicle screeched down the private lane, vanishing past the treeline.
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Julian scooped Emma off the damp earth. The girl was sobbing hysterically, burying her tear-stained face into his neck. He looked across the ruined turf at Elena, who sat behind the wheel of her car, her breathing ragged, staring at the child in his arms.
“Get in,” Elena commanded, her voice hollow. “Arthur Vance just ordered a police escort to the Blackwood Bay hospice. If Clara dies before you sign a custody affidavit, that child belongs to the state.”
