Chapter 3 - Escape in the Tempest
The rain was a solid sheet of white water, slashing diagonally against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the mansion’s grand foyer. Logan carried Caleb, wrapped tightly in a thick wool blanket, down the back service stairs. The boy felt tragically light in his arms, like a bundle of dry twigs.
Every step Logan took was fueled by a dark, simmering adrenaline. He had bypassed the main elevators and the primary security hub, choosing instead the dusty, narrow corridors used by the cleaning staff.
Emily met them at the side door of the laundry room, her hair soaked from the brief run to her car. She held the heavy metal door open, her eyes darting nervously toward the dark driveway.
“The car is idling,” Emily whispered. “We have to be quick. The main gate guards might log my departure, but they usually don't check a housekeeper's trunk.”
“They won't check,” Logan said, his voice tight. “I’m holding Caleb. Get in the driver’s seat. We need to go to my private clinic in Del Mar. The staff there is directly on my personal payroll, completely separate from the estate's medical network.”
Before they could step out into the downpour, the high-pitched chirp of an electronic lock echoed through the laundry chute.
The security door at the end of the hall clicked open.
Logan pushed Emily behind a stack of industrial linen carts, pulling Caleb close to his chest, shielding him with his own body. He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged beast.
Through the gap in the wire carts, Logan saw a pair of sleek, expensive Italian leather boots step onto the linoleum floor.
Dr. Vivian Cross walked into the room.
She wore a beige trench coat, her dark hair perfectly styled despite the storm outside. She carried a professional leather medical bag in one hand, and in the other, a thermal stainless-steel bottle—the container she used to mix Caleb's evening "immune" smoothies.
“Logan?” Vivian’s voice echoed down the narrow corridor, smooth, melodious, and laced with a manufactured warmth that now made Logan’s stomach turn. “Are you down here? Security said your car was in the main garage, but you weren't in your study.”
She stopped, her eyes narrowing as she noticed the door to the laundry room was slightly ajar, letting in the damp, freezing air of the storm.
“Logan?” she called out again, her voice losing a fraction of its warmth, replaced by a sharp, analytical edge. “Caleb needs his evening treatment. The humidity from the storm is bad for his respiratory tract. We shouldn't have the doors open.”
She began walking toward their hiding spot, her leather boots clicking rhythmically on the floor. With every step she took, Logan’s grip on his son tightened. His mind screamed at him to spring forward, to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until the three years of Caleb's agony were avenged.
But he couldn't risk Caleb. Not now.
Emily looked at Logan, her eyes wide with panic. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her car keys, and slipped them into Logan's hand.
“Go,” she mouthed, pointing toward the emergency exit behind them. “I'll distract her.”
Before Logan could protest, Emily stepped out from behind the linen carts, holding a basket of dirty rags.
“Oh! Dr. Cross!” Emily said, her voice pitched high with feigned embarrassment. “You scared me! I was just... I was just taking these rags out to my car. The washing machine in the staff quarters is broken again.”
Vivian stopped, her sharp eyes scanning Emily’s wet clothes, then darting to the half-open door. Her gaze was predatory, cold, and entirely devoid of the maternal warmth she usually displayed in front of Logan.
“What are you doing in the main house at this hour, Emily?” Vivian asked, her voice dropping into a chilly, commanding tone. “Your shift ended at six.”
“I know, ma’am,” Emily said, squeezing the basket tightly. “But Mr. Whitaker’s overcoat was soaked from the rain, and I wanted to make sure it was dried and pressed before his morning meetings. I was just leaving.”
Vivian stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. She raised the thermal bottle in her hand, her fingers tapping against the metal.
“Have you been in Caleb’s room, Emily?”
“No, ma’am,” Emily lied smoothly, though her heart was visibly thumping against her chest. “I know the rules. Only you and Mr. Whitaker are allowed in during his rest hours.”
May you like
Vivian took a step closer, her eyes locking onto a white smudge on the cuff of Emily’s gray sleeve.
It was the toxic powder from Caleb's torn pillow.
