Ethan flips the photograph. His blood turns to ice. The ink isn’t faded from years past—it’s fresh. And it isn’t his dead wife’s handwriting. It’s Celeste’s.
*“Ethan,”* the frantic scrawl reads. *“Richard is the man who sabotaged your wife’s car. He’s here to finish the job. I packed Sophie in the bulletproof case to hide her. DON’T LET HIM SEE YOU.”*
Ethan jerks his head up. Celeste isn’t dropping the passports because her kidnapping plot is foiled; she’s dropping them in absolute, paralyzing terror.
Behind her on the grand staircase, Richard sighs. The lazy, lover-boy smirk vanishes from his face. He reaches into the folds of his robe and pulls out a suppressed Glock.
“You were supposed to carry the luggage directly to the trunk, Celeste,” Richard sneers, stepping over the scattered plane tickets. “Not let the damn thing scream.”
He levels the gun at Ethan’s chest.
But Ethan doesn’t freeze. The heavy iron fireplace poker he used to pry the suitcase lock is still gripped tightly in his right hand. With a primal roar, Ethan hurls the wrought-iron rod like a spear. It catches Richard squarely in the throat just as he pulls the trigger.
The gunshot goes wide, shattering the grand chandelier above. Thousands of crystal shards and sparks rain down, plunging the foyer into chaotic darkness.
“Run!” Celeste screams, throwing her own body against Richard as he scrambles for the dropped weapon. “He’s a cleaner! Go!”
Ethan scoops up six-year-old Sophie, dodging blind gunfire that rips through the drywall, and kicks open the heavy oak front door, sprinting into the frigid Connecticut night.
As they duck behind a stone pillar, Sophie tugs on Ethan’s collar. She uncurls her tiny fist, a wicked smile crossing her face.
“Daddy,” she whispers. “I took his car keys.”