Chapter 3 - The Letter I Never ReceivedI didn't confront my uncle.
Not yet.
Anger made men careless.
Silas had taught me that himself.
So I sat beside Nell's hospital bed while June slept against my chest and pretended the ground beneath my entire life wasn't cracking open.
At 2:13 a.m., Gus sent me the courier receipt.
RECEIVED BY: SILAS MERCER.
Eight months earlier.
Nell had done exactly what she said.
She had tried to tell me.
My uncle had received the proof that she was pregnant.
Then somebody had answered her using my signature.
I stared at the document until the letters blurred.
Nell was awake.
“I recognize that look.”
I raised my head.
“What look?”
“The one you get before someone regrets knowing you.”
“I don't have a look.”
“You absolutely have a look.”
For the first time since I walked into the hospital, something almost resembling our old marriage entered the room.
Then it disappeared.
“Is it Silas?”
I didn't lie.
“He signed for your letter.”
Her breath caught.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why would your uncle care if I was pregnant?”
“Eight hundred million reasons.”
She looked toward June.
I hated seeing fear enter her face whenever money was mentioned.
“She doesn't know what money is.”
“No.”
“She thinks socks are food.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
A real laugh.
Quiet.
Surprised.
Nell stared at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“I've done it before.”
“Rarely.”
June stirred against me.
Both of us went silent immediately.
Her eyes opened.
She stared up at me.
Then she frowned.
My frown.
Nell saw it too.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
“What?”
“I spent six months wondering why she looked angry at furniture.”
“She doesn't look angry.”
“She looks exactly like you.”
I looked down at my daughter.
June blinked.
Then grabbed my nose.
I almost stopped breathing.
Nell watched.
Her expression softened despite herself.
“She likes you.”
I swallowed.
“She doesn't know me.”
“Babies don't care about your résumé.”
Something tightened behind my ribs.
“I missed everything.”
Nell said nothing.
“Her birth.”
Silence.
“Her first smile.”
“She smiled at five weeks.”
“First laugh?”
“Three months.”
“Rolling over?”
“Four and a half.”
Every answer was another knife.
“Was she healthy?”
“Yes.”
“Were you?”
Nell looked away.
“No.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“I had complications after delivery.”
“What complications?”
“Blood pressure. Infection.”
“And nobody called me.”
“I thought you didn't want to know.”
That sentence would follow me to my grave.
I put June carefully into the bassinet.
Then I sat in the chair beside Nell's bed.
“I need to tell you the truth about the divorce.”
Her face hardened.
“You told me you didn't love me anymore.”
“I lied.”
“I figured that out sometime around the fourth month of therapy.”
The words landed hard.
I deserved them too.
I reached into my jacket.
For fifteen months, I'd carried a copy of the photograph.
It was folded now.
Creased.
Worn along the edges.
I placed it on her blanket.
Nell stared at it.
The picture showed her sitting beside the library window of our old house, reading.
A red circle had been drawn around her head.
On the back were five words.
NEXT TIME SHE DOESN'T WALK AWAY.
Nell went pale.
“Who sent this?”
“Frank Calder.”
“When?”
“Three days before I asked for the divorce.”
She looked at me.
I told her everything.
Calder's threat.
His men photographing her.
The intercepted security route.
The second photograph of her leaving a grocery store.
How I had spent two nights sitting awake beside her while she slept, convincing myself that love meant making the decision she would hate enough to survive.
When I finished, tears stood in her eyes.
Not romantic tears.
Not forgiving tears.
Furious ones.
“You idiot.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“You absolute, unbelievable idiot.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“I thought knowledge would make you a bigger target.”
“I was your wife.”
“I know.”
“No. You still don't.”
She pressed a hand carefully against her ribs.
“If someone threatened us, we were supposed to face it together.”
“I know that now.”
“You decided I couldn't handle the truth.”
“I decided I couldn't survive your funeral.”
Her expression changed.
I looked down.
“I thought if you hated me, you'd stay away from me. Stay safe.”
“And was I safe?”
No.
Pregnant.
Alone.
Almost murdered on a wet Miami road.
“No.”
She wiped her cheek.
“Then stop deciding what protects me.”
I looked at her.
“If we survive this, Roman, I make my own choices.”
“If we survive this, you can make every choice you want.”
“Not every choice.”
A faint edge of sarcasm returned.
“June is not eating chocolate cake for breakfast.”
“I wasn't planning—”
“You absolutely would.”
Before I could defend myself, the door opened.
A nurse entered pushing a small medical cart.
“I need to take June downstairs.”
I stood immediately.
“For what?”
“A pediatric scan.”
“Nobody mentioned a scan.”
She smiled.
“Dr. Meyers ordered it fifteen minutes ago.”
Nell frowned.
“June wasn't injured.”
“It's precautionary.”
The woman reached toward the bassinet.
Something felt wrong.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe fatherhood had arrived in less than two days and rewritten my nervous system.
I caught her wrist before her hand touched June.
The nurse's smile disappeared.
“Mr. Mercer—”
“Show me your badge.”
She froze.
“Roman?” Nell whispered.
“Badge.”
The nurse pulled backward.
Gus entered at exactly that moment.
He took one look at my face and closed the door.
The woman tried to run.
She made it two steps.
Gus stopped her.
Within seconds, my security team had her against the wall.
The real nurse assigned to Nell arrived less than a minute later.
She stared at the stranger.
“Who is that?”
Nobody answered.
We found the forged hospital ID in her pocket.
Along with a syringe containing a sedative.
And a phone.
There was only one message thread on it.
No names.
Just instructions.
Room 714.
Infant female.
Mother immobilized.
Father expected to leave by 3:00.
Then the final message.
Do not hurt the child. We need her alive.
Nell made a broken sound.
I moved in front of June's bassinet.
Gus scrolled farther.
His eyes narrowed.
“Boss.”
He held up the phone.
There was a photograph attached to the last message.
A photograph of June.
Taken that afternoon.
Inside this room.
From the doorway.
Someone had been watching us.
But that wasn't the worst part.
In the reflection of the hospital window behind June, I could see the person who had taken the photograph.
Dark suit.
Silver hair.
Black cane.
My uncle had stood exactly there three hours earlier.
May you like
Silas Mercer had come to visit my daughter.
And somehow, minutes later, her photograph had been sent to the woman who came to take her.
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