Chapter 5 - The Unspoken Truth
Clara sat frozen on the nursery floor, the terrifying reality crashing over her like an icy wave.
Noah hadn't gone insane from trauma. He was a witness.
The four-year-old child had seen who forced his mother's car off the road two years ago. He had heard the metallic flick of a lighter, seen the logo on the truck that rammed them, and recognized the man who had ordered the hit—his own uncle, Arthur Vale.
Every time Arthur entered the house, every time a guard clicked a lighter, every time someone tried to lock Noah in a room or grab him from behind, the child wasn't throwing a random tantrum. He was re-living the night he watched his mother die, desperately trying to fight off the monsters everyone else was inviting into the living room.
"Clara."
A cold, heavy voice shattered the silence.
Clara jerked her head around. Dominic was standing in the open doorway of the nursery, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand. His necktie was loosened, his dark hair messy, his posture dangerous.
The two guards behind him looked nervous.
"What are you doing in here?" Dominic asked, his dark eyes narrowing as he stepped into the room. "I gave strict orders that no one was to bother him tonight."
Clara stood up quickly, her back pressing against the wardrobe. She tried to hide the drawing behind her dress, but Dominic’s sharp gaze caught the movement immediately.
"What is that?" Dominic demanded, extending his hand. "Give it to me."
"Mr. Vale, please—" Clara stammered.
"Give it to me, Miss Reed," Dominic ordered, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that made grown men tremble.
With trembling hands, Clara handed him the piece of heavy linen paper.
Dominic stared at the rough charcoal sketch. He looked at the crude lines, the truck grill, the sharp strokes of his family's corporate logo, and the jagged flame drawn in the corner.
"What is this nonsense?" Dominic muttered, his brow furrowing. "Did you draw this?"
"No," Clara said, stepping forward, abandoning all caution. "Noah drew it. Last night in the library."
Dominic let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "My son doesn't draw scenes, Miss Reed. He scribbles. He destroys things. The doctors said—"
"The doctors aren't listening to him!" Clara cried out, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Look at it, Mr. Vale! Really look at it! That's not a monster. That's a flatbed shipping truck from your South Chicago yard! The ones with the reinforced steel bumpers!"
Dominic’s laughter died instantly. His face went pale, his grip tightening so hard on the paper that the thick linen crumpled under his fingers.
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"What did you say?" Dominic whispered.
"The night your wife died," Clara said, her tears finally overflowing, her body shaking from the adrenaline. "The police report said her car was pushed off the bridge by an unidentified black SUV. But Noah was in the booster seat! He saw what hit them! It was one of your uncle's transport trucks!"
