Evelyn gasped in relief, a sudden, triumphant smile flashing across her face before she hid it behind a look of faux sympathy. “Yes, take her away! Thank you, Marcus. Oh God, my baby, I was so scared for her.”
Evelyn reached out to touch Chloe’s leg.
Chloe screamed. It was a high, piercing sound of pure terror, and the little girl violently buried her face into Marcus’s neck, sobbing hysterically.
Marcus stepped back, putting physical distance between his wife and his daughter. He stared at Evelyn, his eyes burning with a dark, calculating intensity.
“Tom,” Marcus said softly, never breaking eye contact with his wife.
“Yes, Mr. Sterling?”
“When the police arrive, tell them nobody leaves this penthouse until I personally give the order. Especially not my wife.”
Chapter 2: The Baseboard Camera
The guest study felt suffocatingly small, even with its high ceilings and view of the Chicago skyline.
I sat on the edge of the leather sofa, holding an ice pack to my left shoulder. The paramedic had come and gone, diagnosing a severe contusion and a hairline fracture in my collarbone. He had wrapped it tight, given me ibuprofen, and told me I was lucky the club hadn’t caught me in the back of the head.
Outside the heavy mahogany door, the penthouse was swarming. I could hear the low hum of police radios, the heavy footsteps of officers, and occasionally, Evelyn’s voice drifting down the hall.
She was putting on the performance of a lifetime.
Even through the thick door, I could hear her crying. She was weaving a story about how I was a disgruntled, obsessed employee who had snapped. She claimed she had caught me taking pictures of the safe, that I had shoved Chloe when the child walked in, and that she had grabbed the golf club purely out of motherly instinct to save her stepdaughter.
She even told the police the life insurance policy was my idea—that I had downloaded the forms to try and blackmail them, or that I was involved in some wider conspiracy to harm the child.
It was insane. It was absurd. But Evelyn was a master manipulator, and she had the polished, tear-stained face of a wealthy socialite. I was a twenty-four-year-old nanny with a fractured collarbone and no money for a lawyer.
The door handle turned, and I flinched.
Tom stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He looked at me with a weary expression.
“How’s the shoulder?” he asked softly.
“It hurts,” I said honestly. “Tom, you know I didn’t do this. You know I love Chloe.”
Tom sighed, crossing his arms. “Maya, I know. But Mrs. Sterling has a story, and it’s complicated. The police found a burner phone in your tote bag in the kitchen. It has text messages on it discussing the insurance policy and international wire transfers.”
My stomach bottomed out. The floor felt like it was dropping out from under me. “What? That’s not mine! I don’t own a burner phone! She must have planted it when I was in the study!”
“I believe you,” Tom said quietly. “But the police are bagging it as evidence. Mrs. Sterling is claiming you forged the documents and she caught you. Marcus is keeping them from arresting you right now, but it’s getting bad out there. The police want to take you in for questioning.”