Chapter 7
All eyes darted upward toward the rusted metal fire escape clinging to the side of the decaying tenement building. Standing on the landing, half-hidden by hanging laundry lines, was a young man holding a professional camera with a massive telephoto lens. The harsh flash of his camera suddenly went off, illuminating the damp alley in a blinding, instantaneous white glare before he spun around and bolted up the stairs toward the roof.
"Stop that photographer!" Jonathan roared, his cool composure shattering instantly as he pointed frantically toward the fire escape.
The two large bodyguards who had been waiting by the luxury sedan immediately broke into a sprint, pushing past Eleanor and Clara to charge up the metal stairs with heavy, echoing boots.
Clara grabbed Maeve’s hand tightly.
"We need to get out of here, now," Clara whispered urgently, pulling the homeless girl toward the opposite end of the alley where a narrow side street offered an escape route.
"Wait!" Eleanor called out, stumbling after them. But Jonathan reached out with surprising speed, grabbing Eleanor by the wrist and yanking her back with brutal force.
"Let them go, Eleanor," Jonathan hissed, his face twisted in fury. "If that photographer gets those pictures to the morning papers, our entire corporate empire collapses by noon. That street rat is the least of our worries now."
Maeve looked back over her shoulder as Clara dragged her into the shadows of the side street. Through the driving mist, she saw Jonathan glaring at her with pure malice, while Eleanor struggled desperately against his grip. The flash of the camera had captured everything—the locket, the embrace, the confrontation. The secret was out in the open, and the hounds were officially running.
Clara pulled Maeve down a twisting labyrinth of brick-lined corridors, far away from the luxury sedan and the terrifying presence of her grandfather. They ducked behind a row of industrial recycling bins in a secluded courtyard, both of them breathing heavily, the cold air burning their lungs.
"Are you okay?" Clara asked, brushing a wet lock of matted brown hair away from Maeve’s dirty forehead. Her own white blouse was stained with mud, and her blue hair ribbon hung loose and bedraggled.
Maeve nodded slowly, clutching the silver locket safely inside her tattered pocket.
"I've been cold before," Maeve whispered, her voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins. "I've been chased before. But I've never had a sister."
Clara managed a weak, watery smile, throwing her arms around Maeve in another fierce, protective hug—this time without fear of anyone stopping them.
"You're my sister," Clara vowed fiercely. "And we are going to fix all of this. We have to find that photographer before my grandfather does."
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Suddenly, the heavy metal door of the courtyard creaked open behind them, casting a long, sharp beam of light across the pavement.
***
