Chapter 16 - Midnight Confession
The iron gates of Greenfield Manor were locked tight, crowned with rusted spikes and warning signs.
I did not slow down.
I gripped the steering wheel, lined up the heavy steel bumper of my SUV, and rammed the gate at forty miles an hour.
The wrought iron hinges screamed, tearing free from the stone pillars with an ear-splitting screech of tortured metal.
We careened up the long, curving gravel driveway lined with weeping willow trees that whipped against the windshield.
At the crest of the hill stood the Vance mansion, a three-story Victorian monstrosity glowing with cold yellow light.
I slammed on the brakes in front of the sweeping marble staircase, cutting the engine instantly.
"Evelyn, where is the boy’s nursery?" I asked, pulling an emergency flares kit from under my passenger seat.
"Second floor, east turret, behind the steel security door," Evelyn answered, her green eyes blazing with determination.
"Eleanor keeps the master biometric key in her study on the ground floor."
We kicked through the French patio doors of the ground floor library, shattering the beveled glass into thousand pieces.
The security alarms began blaring, a deafening high-pitched siren that bounced off the wood-paneled walls.
An elderly caretaker in a beige uniform came running down the hall with a flashlight raised as a weapon.
Evelyn struck the emergency flare against the floor, thrusting the hissing red inferno directly toward his face.
The man cried out in terror, stumbling backward and falling hard against a mahogany display cabinet.
"Eleanor’s study is through there!" Evelyn shouted over the deafening wail of the sirens.
I kicked open the study door and rifled through the heavy walnut desk until my fingers hit a velvet-lined drawer.
Inside lay a black keycard and an open leather binder containing two stamped birth certificates.
The first read: *Hope Sullivan — Born 11:42 PM.*
The second read: *Christian Vance — Born 11:48 PM.*
Eleanor had erased James’s name completely from the boy’s record, replacing it with her deceased husband's lineage.
"Claire, look at this!" Evelyn cried, pointing to a live surveillance monitor mounted above the desk.
On the screen was the nursery upstairs.
A baby boy wrapped in a sky-blue blanket lay in an antique mahogany crib, crying soundlessly on the silent feed.
Standing beside the crib was not a nurse, but Eleanor Vance’s personal physician, Dr. Aris Thorne.
He was filling a large glass syringe with a clear liquid, his hand hovering directly over the infant’s IV port.
"He’s going to sedate the child for transport," Evelyn gasped, terror choking her voice.
"If he moves that baby out of state tonight, we will never see him again!"
May you like
I didn't answer.
I snatched the keycard, bolted out of the study, and took the grand staircase three steps at a time.
