The Sound of the Floorboards

"Patrick," Miller said evenly, his eyes gesturing toward the technical officer tracing the line. "Turn yourself in. Kidnapping a minor across state lines is a non-bailable federal charge."

"I haven't crossed any state lines," Patrick chuckled softly, a chilling sound devoid of empathy. "Under our current joint custody agreement, I have parental visitation rights through Tuesday noon. What you call 'training an abduction,' my legal team calls 'emergency disaster preparedness instruction.'"

"You forged foreign passports, Patrick," Miller countered. "The Canadian consulate just confirmed the serials are fraudulent."

"Try proving I purchased them," Patrick replied smoothly. "Listen to me very carefully, Mark. Put Claire on the line."

Miller looked at Claire. She nodded firmly, leaning toward the receiver.

"Patrick," Claire said, her voice like honed granite.

"Claire," Patrick’s tone softened into a manipulative, sickly sweet cadence. "You’re making a scene out of nothing. Bring Lily to the harbor terminal before sunrise. If you do, I will sign over the equity in the Boston property and agree to full legal custody revisions after twelve months abroad."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't," Patrick whispered, his voice turning to ice, "the documents proving your father's accounting firm managed offshore accounts for the union pension funds will be on the Attorney General's desk by 7:00 AM. You think you're protecting Lily? You'll be watching her from behind a federal glass partition while she lives in a state group home."

Claire felt the floor drop beneath her feet. Her late father had died four years ago, leaving behind an impeccable legacy. Patrick had worked in his office for three years before the firm dissolved.

"You stole my father's archive," Claire breathed.