Chapter 7
Marcus didn’t pull a weapon from his coat; instead, he withdrew a sleek, silver smartphone, its screen already illuminated with an incoming call. He tapped the speakerphone icon and laid the device gently on the changing table right beside Lily’s diapers.
“Put her on,” Evelyn’s cold voice filtered through the tiny speaker, cutting through the nursery silence like a scalpel. “Don’t play games with me, Clara. I know Julian was just here. I saw his shadow on the fire escape from my car across the street.”
Clara didn’t look at the phone. She kept her posture slumped in the rocking chair, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the leather red ledger hidden deep inside the folds of her pink robe. The sharp corner of the notebook pressed painfully against her ribs, but she dared not adjust her position.
“You’re trespassing,” Clara said coldly, her voice devoid of the tears she had shed earlier. The maternal instinct had hardened into something unbreakable, forged in the fires of betrayal and grief. “If you wanted to talk, you should have stayed downstairs instead of sending your thug to break into my home.”
“Thug?” Evelyn laughed softly on the other end of the line, the sound devoid of warmth or humanity. “Marcus is an asset, dear, much like the house you’re currently standing in. And unlike you, Marcus knows how business works. Now, hand over the red ledger, Clara. Toss it out the window to him, and I’ll let you and the brat walk out of here with your clothes and your lives.”
Clara stared at the changing table, her mind racing. Evelyn didn’t know for certain that Julian had handed the book to her—she only knew Julian had been there. If Clara played her cards right, she could bluff her way out of the immediate danger.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clara replied, her tone dripping with feigned ignorance. “Julian came by to beg for money because he’s broke and desperate. He climbed up the fire escape like a lunatic, and I told him to leave before I called the police. He didn’t leave me anything.”
Marcus watched Clara closely, his eyes narrowing as he studied her micro-expressions—the slight hesitation before speaking, the restrained breathing, the defiant angle of her chin. He took a slow step closer to the rocking chair, his hand hovering near his waist where a heavy belt holster was concealed beneath his coat.
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“She’s lying, boss,” Marcus said into the phone without breaking eye contact with Clara. “She’s too calm. Nobody acts like that unless they’re holding the cards.”
On the speaker, Evelyn’s tone dropped to a lethal whisper. “Search the room, Marcus. Tear the crib apart if you have to. But find that book before the federal marshals arrive.”
