Chapter 4 - The House With No Locks
“I think someone was talking about a baby that night.”
Maeve's confession remained suspended in the townhouse hallway.
Donovan stared at her, his hand still supporting her elbow.
“What exactly did you hear?”
She closed her eyes, trying to force the memory into focus.
“A woman's voice. She sounded frightened. Then a man said something about a child not surviving if someone found out.”
“Did you recognize either voice?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone?”
She shook her head.
Donovan released her arm carefully.
For the first time since they had met in the coffee shop, she saw genuine uncertainty behind his composure. He could make a room fall silent simply by entering it, yet he could not force the past to explain itself.
“What does it mean?” she whispered.
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I won't lie to you just to make you feel better.”
Maeve looked at him for a long moment.
Then she lowered her eyes to her stomach.
“I need to know whether my baby is safe.”
Donovan's answer came immediately.
“I'll do everything I can to protect both of you.”
“That's not a guarantee.”
“No.” His voice softened. “It's a promise about what I'll do, not a promise that I can control everything.”
She appreciated the distinction more than she wanted to admit.
An hour later, they arrived at a townhouse on a quiet street several miles from the city center.
It wasn't the enormous mansion Maeve had imagined. There were no marble staircases, gold fixtures, or portraits of dead relatives glaring down from the walls. The building was elegant but understated, with a narrow garden, warm lights in the windows, and a front door that looked ordinary enough to belong to a successful attorney.
Donovan unlocked the door.
“You can inspect every room before deciding whether to stay.”
Maeve stepped inside.
The house smelled faintly of cedar and fresh coffee. A small kitchen opened into a living room lined with bookshelves. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom with a deep white bathtub.
She checked the windows.
They opened.
She checked the front door.
It locked from the inside.
Then she inspected the bedroom closet, the bathroom, and the second bedroom, where someone had placed a folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
“Who prepared this place?” she asked.
“My housekeeper. She didn't know who would be staying here.”
“Does she work for you?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know about the baby?”
“No.”
Maeve studied him.
“You really do answer questions when I ask them.”
“I was advised it was a revolutionary approach.”
She gave him a look.
He almost smiled.
The moment passed when Donovan's phone rang.
He stepped into the living room, but Maeve could still hear Julian's voice through the speaker.
“Victor hasn't returned any calls.”
“Where is he?”
“His driver says he left his apartment early this morning. Nobody knows where he went.”
“Check his office.”
“We did. His desk has been cleared.”
Donovan's face hardened.
“Cleared how?”
“Documents removed. Computer wiped. Personal items gone.”
Maeve stood in the doorway.
“Does that mean he's running?”
Donovan ended the call before answering.
“It means he's avoiding a conversation.”
“That's a polite way of saying it.”
“I'm trying to maintain a polite atmosphere.”
“Your security chief asks whether to bring someone in alive or dead, and you're worried about the atmosphere?”
He looked at her.
“Julian enjoys dramatic phrasing.”
“Does he?”
“Frequently.”
For a moment, the tension eased.
Then Donovan's phone vibrated again.
This time, the message contained a photograph.
Victor Sloane stood inside a private clinic reception area, wearing a dark suit and holding a document folder.
The photograph was dated four days earlier.
Beneath it, someone had written:
ASK HIM WHY HE PAID FOR THE PATERNITY TEST BEFORE THE BABY WAS CONCEIVED.
Maeve felt every muscle in her body tighten.
Donovan read the message twice.
“That's impossible,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because no one knew you were pregnant four days ago.”
“Someone had my clinic records.”
His eyes rose to hers.
“You're right.”
The realization seemed to settle heavily upon him.
Someone had obtained her medical information, entered her apartment, photographed her at the café, and sent anonymous messages designed to make her distrust him.
It was not random intimidation.
It was a plan.
And Victor Sloane, the man Donovan had trusted for fifteen years, appeared to be standing somewhere near its center.
Maeve moved toward the kitchen.
“I want to call my doctor.”
“Of course.”
“I don't want your people contacting the clinic without me knowing.”
“I'll make that clear.”
“And I want a copy of every medical record anyone requests about my pregnancy.”
“Agreed.”
She reached for her phone.
A new message arrived.
This one contained no photograph.
Only a single sentence.
YOUR DOCTOR HAS ALREADY BEEN PAID TO LIE.
Maeve stared at the screen.
She had spent weeks believing her greatest problem was how to raise a child alone.
Now she couldn't even be certain that the person monitoring her pregnancy had told her the truth.
Donovan approached, stopping far enough away not to crowd her.
“Maeve, look at me.”
She did.
“I won't ask you to trust me blindly,” he said. “But don't let an anonymous stranger decide what you believe before we've examined the evidence.”
“What if the evidence proves you're involved?”
“Then you'll know the truth.”
“And what if the truth is worse than the lies?”
Donovan's expression darkened.
“Then we'll face it without pretending otherwise.”
She wanted to believe him.
Instead, she placed the phone on the counter and took a slow breath.
“I'm calling my doctor tomorrow. Not one of your doctors. Mine.”
“Absolutely.”
“And until I know what's happening, I want no photographs of the baby shared with anyone.”
Donovan nodded.
“Done.”
She looked down at the ultrasound picture she had carried from her apartment.
For weeks, it had represented the one future she could still imagine.
Now someone had turned it into a weapon.
That night, Maeve barely slept.
At 2:13 a.m., she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door.
“Maeve?”
Donovan's voice.
She sat up.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I'm sorry to wake you. I wanted to let you know we found something.”
She opened the door.
He stood in the hallway holding a thin brown envelope.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was delivered to my office six weeks ago. I never opened it because it was addressed to Victor.”
He held it toward her.
Across the front, in handwriting she didn't recognize, were the words:
FOR THE MAN WHO THINKS ELENA HAYES DIED WITHOUT AN HEIR.
Maeve stared at the envelope.
“Your sister.”
Donovan nodded.
He opened it.
Inside lay a photograph of a young woman with dark hair, standing beside a hospital bassinet.
A handwritten date appeared beneath the image.
Three years earlier.
Donovan turned the photograph over.
His face lost all expression.
On the back, a message had been written in black ink.
YOUR SISTER'S CHILD IS ALIVE.
For the first time that night, Maeve forgot her fear for herself.
May you like
Because Donovan Hayes was staring at proof that someone had built an entire history around a lie.
And somewhere out there, a child had been hidden from him for three years.
