Arthur Sterling stared at me, a slow, knowing smile beginning to spread across his aged face. “What are you proposing, Maren?”
“Let Elliot make his phone call,” I said. “Let them gather at Villa Paradiso. Let Marcus Vance queue the wire transfer. Let them believe they have won.”
I stood up from the conference table, the pain in my abdomen completely overshadowed by the icy determination coursing through my veins.
“Arthur, call the owner of Villa Paradiso. Find out who holds the master lease. And book us on the 7:00 AM flight out of Burlington to San Francisco tomorrow.”
“You just had a major abdominal surgery less than twenty-four hours ago,” Sergeant Miller said, his voice laced with concern. “You shouldn’t even be walking, let alone flying across the country.”
“My daughter is fighting for her life in an incubator down the hall,” I said, looking Sergeant Miller straight in the eye. “And I am not going to spend the next five years hiding behind depositions and restraining orders while my husband and his parents sip wine in the sun.”
I looked down at Evelyn Vance, who was trembling so hard her chair rattled against the floor.
“You’re going to pick up that phone, Evelyn,” I commanded. “You are going to text Elliot Carver right now. You are going to tell him that the paperwork is filed, the title is cleared, and that the local authorities have officially closed the inquiry into Maren Bellamy’s ‘unfortunate accident.'”
Evelyn looked up, her lips shaking. “And… and if I do?”
“Then Agent Reynolds might ask the federal judge not to put you in maximum security,” I said coldly. “Pick up the phone.”
With trembling fingers, Evelyn lifted her mobile device from the table. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps as she typed out the exact message I dictated to her, word for word.
Elliot—Everything is finalized with the county clerk. Maren’s situation is fully contained. No further questions from local police. The wire is cleared for Friday at 10:00 AM. Marcus has the codes. Enjoy Sonoma.
She hit send.
Three seconds later, the screen lit up with Elliot’s immediate reply.
Perfect. Tell Dad to chill the champagne. The nightmare is finally over.
The hardest part wasn’t the physical agony of pulling my bandaged body out of the hospital bed, nor was it the sharp, tearing sensation along my lower abdomen every time I took a breath.
The hardest part was letting go of Clara’s tiny hand.
At 5:30 on Thursday morning, the neonatal intensive care unit was cloaked in the blue, muted glow of dawn. I stood beside the incubator, dressed in dark linen trousers that hung loosely over my hips and a soft cashmere sweater Arthur had sent an assistant to purchase for me. Beneath the clothes, my surgical incision was strapped tight with compression binders, but the real armor was the cold, unyielding resolve hardening in my chest.
Dr. Sarah Vance stood on the opposite side of the isolette, checking Clara’s vital signs on the digital monitor.
“Her oxygen saturation is holding steady at ninety-eight percent,” Dr. Vance said, her voice quiet and filled with fierce respect. “Her temperature is normal. Her blood labs came back clean—no lasting cellular damage from the hyperthermia you experienced. She’s strong, Maren. Unbelievably strong.”
I touched the curved plastic of the incubator, leaning down until my lips were inches from the ventilation port.
“I have to leave for twenty-four hours, baby,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. “I have to go finish what they started. I have to make sure they can never touch you, never look at you, and never take another breath of freedom near our lives.”
As if responding to my voice, Clara’s small mouth puckered, and she gave a tiny, contented sigh in her sleep.
I looked up at Dr. Vance. The physician’s jaw was set tight, her eyes carrying a deep, lingering shame over what her aunt had done.
“Hospital security is posted at every entrance to this floor,” Dr. Vance assured me, placing a gentle hand over mine. “Agent Reynolds assigned two armed federal marshals to Clara’s room. No one gets within fifty feet of this incubator without showing federal credentials. I will stay on this shift personally until you return. You have my word.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” I said softly.
Arthur was waiting for me in the corridor, a black leather briefcase in one hand and a thermos of black coffee in the other. Beside him, Special Agent Katherine Reynolds was speaking into an encrypted satellite phone, her sharp voice echoing down the empty hall.
“Understood,” Reynolds said into the receiver. “Have the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Special Response Team stage at the trailhead two miles south of the gate. Do not initiate contact until the target authenticates the transfer. We want the wire fraud charge locked down alongside the state attempted murder indictments. Yes, Sir. We’re wheels up in twenty minutes.”
She hung up, sliding the device into her blazer pocket, and turned her piercing blue eyes toward me.
“We’re taking a Department of Justice Gulfstream out of Burlington Regional,” Reynolds said, looking me up and down with professional scrutiny. “We have a medical jump kit onboard and a flight paramedic assigned to the cabin. If you show any signs of internal bleeding or shock, Mrs. Bellamy, I will divert the bird to Chicago without hesitation. Do you understand?”
“I’m not going to bleed, Agent Reynolds,” I said, walking past her toward the elevators with a steady, deliberate stride. “I’m going to watch them burn.”
Arthur fell into step beside me, pressing a warm coffee cup into my hands.
“I made a few calls while you were saying goodbye to Clara,” Arthur murmured as the elevator doors slid shut. “It turns out the Carvers didn’t choose Villa Paradiso by accident.”
“Why that property?” I asked, sipping the bitter coffee.
“Villa Paradiso is owned by a private trust out of Geneva,” Arthur explained, pulling a thin tablet from his briefcase and tapping the screen. “Russell Carver set up that offshore trust eight years ago through an accounting shell in the Cayman Islands. He doesn’t just rent the villa, Maren. He owns it. He bought it with laundered escrow money from Carver & Associates to serve as their luxury bug-out location if the federal authorities ever closed in on his domestic operations.”
A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “So they fled to their private sanctuary, thinking they were untouchable behind their high stone walls and private security gates.”
“Exactly,” Arthur smiled, a chilling, razor-thin expression. “What Russell doesn’t know is that at 4:00 AM this morning, the United States District Court in Burlington granted Agent Reynolds an emergency ex parte seizure warrant for all domestic and foreign assets tied to Carver & Associates. That includes the master lease and title to Villa Paradiso. As of right now, legally speaking, the Carvers are trespassing on federal property.”
“And the private security guarding the perimeter?”
