Chapter 4 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING
The line went dead.
The silence inside the armored SUV was deafening.
I stared at the dashboard, my hands trembling violently.
“Mom,” I whispered, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.
I lunged for the door handle.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. Jump out? Run all the way to South Boston?
Jack reached across the console and grabbed my arm, pinning it to my side.
“Stop.”
“Let me go!” I screamed, hitting his arm with my free hand. “They have my mother! He’s going to kill her!”
“If you open that door, you’re dead, and she’s dead!” Jack roared.
His voice filled the car, echoing with raw, absolute authority.
I stopped fighting, collapsing against the passenger seat, sobbing into my hands.
Jack exhaled slowly.
He didn’t let go of my arm immediately.
Instead, his grip softened. His thumb brushed lightly over my sleeve.
“I am going to get her back, Emily,” Jack said, his voice dropping to a fierce, steady murmur. “I swear to you on my life. I will get her back.”
I looked up at him through my tears.
“Who is Arthur?”
Jack’s eyes darkened with a hatred so deep it made the air feel cold.
“Arthur Sterling. He’s the Chairman of the Northbridge Board of Directors. And the man who ordered the hit on my father five years ago.”
My breath hitched.
“He killed your father? Why is he still alive?”
“Because he controls the politicians,” Jack said bitterly. “He holds the leverage. My father was trying to take our family legitimate. He wanted to turn Northbridge into a clean corporation. Arthur and the board didn’t want to lose the dirty money.”
Jack looked at the silver locket clutched in my hand.
“That ledger your father hid doesn’t just incriminate my family. It incriminates Arthur. If Arthur gets it, he destroys me. If I get it, I destroy him.”
Jack suddenly hit the brakes, pulling the SUV into a dark, abandoned alleyway in the industrial district.
He put the car in park and turned to me.
“We need to know what’s inside that locket before midnight.”
I wiped my face.
“My mother said it’s broken. It doesn’t open.”
Jack held out his hand.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then placed the heavy silver necklace in his palm.
He didn’t try to pry it open.
He turned it over.
He ran his thumb over the engraved crescent moon.
Then, he pressed his thumb directly into the center of the moon and twisted it clockwise.
A tiny, mechanical click echoed in the quiet car.
The locket sprang open.
I gasped.
Inside, there was no photograph.
There was a tiny, intricately cut brass key.
Jack pulled it out, holding it up to the dim light filtering through the alley.
“It’s a safe deposit key,” Jack said.
“For what bank?” I asked.
“It’s not a bank key,” Jack corrected, his eyes narrowing. “It’s a private locker key. Usually used in train stations or old storage facilities. But there’s no locker number on it.”
I stared at the key.
My mother had worn this around her neck for twenty-six years.
She knew my father was a criminal. She knew who paid her medical bills. She knew everything.
“Where did she keep his things?” Jack asked.
“What?”
“Your father. When he died, did your mother keep his belongings? A box? A safe?”
I shook my head.
“No. She threw everything away. She said looking at his things hurt too much.”
I paused.
A memory flashed in my mind.
“Wait.”
I looked at Jack.
“There’s one thing she never threw away. My childhood bedroom. She framed a drawing I made of my dad when I was six. She refused to take it down, even when we painted the house.”
Jack’s eyes lit up.
“It’s at her duplex in South Boston?”
“Yes.”
Jack threw the SUV into drive.
“We have to go there.”
“Arthur’s men could still be there!” I protested.
“I know,” Jack said, pulling a spare magazine from the center console and slamming it into his gun. “That’s why you’re staying in the car.”
Twenty minutes later, we were parked two blocks away from my mother’s duplex.
The street was quiet. Too quiet.
“Lock the doors,” Jack ordered, stepping out of the car. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, put this in drive and don’t stop until you reach the nearest police precinct.”
He closed the door before I could argue.
I watched him disappear into the shadows of the suburban street.
The digital clock on the dashboard read 10:15 PM.
Every minute felt like an hour.
I stared at the tiny brass key in my hand.
My father. A getaway driver for the mob.
My mother. A woman keeping secrets to stay alive.
Me. A girl who shared half a turkey sandwich with a mafia boss.
At 10:24 PM, the passenger door violently yanked open.
I screamed, dropping the key.
Jack slid into the seat, breathing heavily, bleeding from a fresh cut above his eyebrow.
He slammed the door shut and threw a broken wooden picture frame onto my lap.
“Drive!” Jack yelled.
I scrambled over the center console into the driver’s seat.
I slammed the SUV into gear and gunned the engine.
In the rearview mirror, two men ran out of my mother’s house, raising weapons.
The armored glass cracked as a bullet struck the back window.
I panicked, flooring the accelerator.
We tore through the residential streets, running two red lights before merging onto the interstate.
Once we were safe in traffic, my hands shaking on the wheel, I looked over at Jack.
He was wiping the blood from his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I gasped.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” he said grimly.
He reached over and picked up the broken picture frame from my lap.
He ripped the cardboard backing off.
A folded piece of heavy paper fell out.
Jack unfolded it.
It wasn’t a map.
It was a heavily redacted police file.
Jack read it, his eyes widening in shock.
He looked at me.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“Your father wasn’t protecting my father when he died,” Jack whispered.
“What do you mean?”
Jack held up the paper.
“Your father was a federal informant. He wasn’t hiding the ledger to protect Arthur. He was hiding the ledger to hand it over to the FBI.”
Jack looked at the dates on the file.
“And Arthur Sterling is the one who found out. Arthur murdered your father.”
A heavy, sickening dread settled in my stomach.
My mother hadn’t lied to me to protect a criminal.
She lied to protect a hero.
Suddenly, Jack’s phone vibrated again.
It was a text message.
Jack opened it.
The color drained completely from his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
Jack stared at the screen.
“Arthur didn’t just take your mother,” Jack said, his voice hollow.
He turned the screen toward me.
It was a photo of a man tied to a chair in a dark warehouse.
“He took Marcus,” Jack said.
May you like
I frowned. “Your driver?”
“My brother,” Jack corrected softly.
