Chapter 13 - The Intruder's Footsteps
When Julian returned home, he found Clara sitting on the floor of Maya’s nursery, a 9mm pistol resting across her knees, her eyes wide and bloodshot. The smell of Shalimar still clung to the mahogany box lying open on the kitchen island.
"We leave tonight," Julian said, his voice taut, trembling with rage as he finished inspecting the perimeter. "I’ve chartered a private seaplane from Fort Bragg to Vancouver. We disappear. New passports, new names. She won't find us."
"You don't understand, Julian," Clara whispered, her voice hollow as she cradled Maya, whose tiny hands were swatting at the air. "She’s not just watching us from that prison. She’s inside our heads. How did she get that ultrasound? How did she know our exact address? The deed was registered under an anonymous shell company in Delaware!"
Julian knelt beside her, his fingers gently tracing the tension in her jaw. "Clara, look at me. I testified against her. I signed the paperwork that seized forty percent of her liquid assets. She is striking out because she’s drowning. This is psychological warfare. She wants you paralyzed."
Before Clara could answer, the cottage went pitch black.
The hum of the refrigerator, the ambient white noise machine in the nursery, the porch lights—everything died simultaneously. Outside, the wind howled through the redwoods, slamming heavy tree branches against the cedar siding.
*Click. Whirrr.*
Downstairs, the back patio sliding door slid open along its track.
Julian was on his feet in a microsecond, raising his weapon, motioning Clara behind the antique armoire in the corner of the nursery. "Stay down," he mouthed. "Do not make a sound."
Clara pressed Maya against her breast, smothering the infant's whimpers with her palm. Footsteps sounded on the hardwood stairs—slow, unhurried, measured. It wasn't the clumsy advance of a burglar. It was the rhythmic, deliberate click of designer heels.
*Clack. Clack. Clack.*
Julian moved into the hallway, slicing the corner with his weapon drawn. "Federal agent! Don't move!"
A beam of moonlight sliced through the hallway skylight. Standing at the top of the stairs was a tall, slender woman dressed in an exquisite black trench coat. She wore an ivory silk scarf wrapped around her head, and giant tortoiseshell sunglasses that concealed half her face. In her gloved right hand, she held an antique silver serving tray.
On the tray sat a crystal glass filled with a thick, crimson liquid, and a pair of professional barber’s shears.
"Drop the tray!" Julian bellowed, his finger tightening on the trigger.
The woman slowly lowered her head, pulling down the sunglasses. It wasn't Victoria.
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It was Evelyn Vance—Victoria’s personal executive assistant, who had reportedly fled to Switzerland six months ago to avoid a congressional subpoena. Her face was deathly pale, her lips twitching with erratic tremors.
"Julian," Evelyn whispered, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks. "Please don't shoot. She... she has my daughter."
