Chapter 2 - The Name Claire Mason
Amelia did not scream.
Screaming was what frightened people did when they still believed someone would come save them.
She had stopped believing that fourteen weeks ago.
She grabbed the towel, wrapped it around herself, and moved toward the back stairwell of the antiques shop.
Mrs. Whitaker had shown her the route on her first night.
“Fire escape in case the old wiring decides to kill us,” the old woman had joked.
Amelia had laughed then.
She wasn't laughing now.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled on jeans and a sweater.
She took the bag from beneath her bed.
Cash.
Passport.
Medical records.
A small bottle of prenatal vitamins.
Her grandmother's ring.
Nothing else.
She reached the bottom stair just as someone knocked on the front door.
Three slow knocks.
Mrs. Whitaker answered.
Amelia stopped breathing.
“Can I help you?”
A male voice replied.
“We're looking for Claire Mason.”
Mrs. Whitaker's voice hardened.
“Never heard of her.”
The man laughed.
“She rents your upstairs room.”
Silence.
Then Mrs. Whitaker said, “And?”
“Her family is worried.”
“My tenants don't have families. They have rent.”
Amelia's heart pounded.
Another voice entered the conversation.
“Mrs. Whitaker, step away from the door.”
The old woman cursed under her breath.
Amelia quietly opened the back door.
Cold mountain air hit her face.
She stepped outside.
Then she heard glass shatter.
Amelia ran.
Branches scratched her arms as she crossed the narrow wooded path behind the building.
She had no idea where she was going.
Only that she couldn't stay.
She reached the road.
A pickup truck approached.
For one terrible second, she thought it belonged to them.
The truck slowed.
The driver's window rolled down.
An elderly man leaned over.
“Need a ride?”
Amelia stared at him.
Then glanced behind her.
The black SUV emerged from the trees.
“Yes.”
She climbed in.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
The man looked at her stomach.
Then at her frightened face.
He didn't ask questions.
He drove.
Behind them, the SUV turned onto the road.
Inside it, a man raised a phone.
“She's gone.”
A second later, another voice answered.
Declan.
“Then find her.”
The message ended.
The driver beside Declan looked uneasy.
“Sir, the men at the shop weren't ours.”
Declan's eyes sharpened.
“What?”
“The clinic trail was leaked.”
“By whom?”
“We're checking.”
Declan stared through the windshield.
His first thought was Amelia.
His second was the baby.
His third was rage.
He had spent years believing that controlling violence was the same thing as controlling his world.
Now he was learning the difference.
Meanwhile, the elderly driver took Amelia twenty miles east.
When he finally pulled over at a small gas station, she climbed out.
“Thank you.”
He frowned.
“You sure you're okay?”
She nodded.
She wasn't.
He held out a paper bag.
“Sandwich.”
Amelia looked at it.
Then burst into tears.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just exhausted tears rolling down her cheeks.
The man looked embarrassed.
“It's turkey.”
She laughed through the tears.
“Thank you.”
She accepted it.
Then walked inside.
At the counter, she saw a television hanging above the coffee machines.
The news was playing.
A familiar face appeared.
Declan.
The anchor was discussing rising tensions between Chicago's organized crime families.
Then the screen changed.
Savannah Calloway appeared beside him.
Amelia stopped moving.
She had seen the image before.
But now the television showed something new.
A caption beneath Declan's face read:
VOSS-CALLOWAY MARRIAGE TO PROCEED DESPITE RECENT RUMORS
Amelia's hand moved instinctively to her stomach.
She turned away.
Then the cashier spoke.
“Miss?”
Amelia looked over.
“You dropped this.”
Her passport lay on the floor.
The cashier picked it up.
The photograph inside showed the woman she had been.
Amelia took it back.
She slipped it into her bag.
But someone had already seen it.
A man sitting at the far end of the counter.
Dark coat.
Scar beneath his left eye.
He quietly reached into his pocket.
Opened his phone.
May you like
And sent one message.
FOUND HER.
