Chapter 3 - The Road to WinnetkaThe restroom door exploded inward on the third hit.
Daniel stood to one side.
The first man entered fast.
Dark suit.
Earpiece.
Not station security.
Daniel hooked the man’s arm, drove him against the wall, and ripped something from his hand.
A stun gun.
The second man lunged.
I didn’t think.
I swung my metal evening bag directly into his nose.
He stumbled backward with a curse.
“Move!” Daniel shouted.
We ran.
I kicked off my heels before reaching the stairs.
People turned as a sixty-year-old woman in a formal gown sprinted barefoot through Union Station carrying a backpack.
I’m sure it looked ridiculous.
I didn’t care.
Behind us, one of the men yelled into a radio.
Daniel took my arm and pulled me through a maintenance corridor.
“You know this station well?”
“Had a gambling suspect who lived here for three weeks.”
“Wonderful.”
We emerged beside a parking garage.
Daniel’s truck was two levels up.
By the time we reached it, my feet were bleeding.
Daniel started the engine and handed me his phone.
“Call Brooks.”
No answer.
I tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
Daniel cursed.
“Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in those anymore.”
We left the garage.
A black SUV followed us two turns later.
“Same men?”
“Different vehicle.”
Daniel made three quick turns.
The SUV remained behind us.
“Seat belt.”
“It’s already—”
“Make it tighter.”
He accelerated.
At sixty-three years old, Daniel Reyes drove like a man who had spent his twenties chasing criminals.
He cut through downtown streets, used a delivery alley, entered the freeway, exited immediately, then doubled back through an industrial district.
The SUV disappeared.
For five minutes.
Then headlights appeared behind us again.
“They have a tracker,” Daniel said.
“On your truck?”
“Or the bag.”
We both looked at Caroline’s backpack.
Daniel pulled into a twenty-four-hour supermarket.
“Take the flash drive and papers.”
“What about the bag?”
“Leave it.”
We transferred everything into a reusable grocery bag, wrapped the prepaid phone inside the backpack, and stuffed the bag beneath a shopping cart near the entrance.
Then we walked out through another door.
Daniel stole neither a car nor a motorcycle, which disappointed the irrational part of me that had started expecting movie logic.
Instead, he called his niece.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived in a battered Honda Civic.
“Aunt Rosa thinks you’re insane,” she told him.
“She’s right.”
Daniel traded vehicles.
We headed north.
The black SUV followed the tracker to the supermarket.
For the first time, we had space to think.
I called Caroline.
Her phone was off.
Then I remembered the prepaid phone from her backpack.
We had left it with the tracker.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Why would Caroline put a prepaid phone in the locker?”
“Emergency communication.”
“I never checked it.”
Daniel’s face tightened.
We had left it behind.
He called his niece.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then my own phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
You were told not to interfere.
Attached was a photograph.
Caroline.
Sitting in the back seat of a vehicle.
Her face turned toward the window.
A red mark visible along her cheek.
I almost screamed.
A second message arrived.
Go home, Diane. Your daughter will contact you tomorrow.
Daniel said, “Don’t respond.”
I typed:
Let me speak to her.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
A minute later:
No.
That single word killed any remaining doubt.
I looked at Daniel.
“We’re going to the lake.”
“We’re getting backup first.”
“From whom?”
“Brooks.”
“She isn’t answering.”
“Then somebody else.”
He called an old colleague named Marcus Bell, now a county sheriff in a jurisdiction south of Winnetka.
Marcus listened without interrupting.
Then said, “I’ll meet you near Route 17. No radio traffic.”
“Why?”
“Because if what you’re telling me involves Hale, I don’t know who’s listening.”
Daniel ended the call.
“You trust him?”
“With my life.”
“Do I?”
“Tonight you have to.”
An hour later, we met Marcus behind a closed farm-supply store.
He arrived alone in an unmarked pickup.
Tall, broad, late fifties.
He shook my hand.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“Diane.”
“Daniel showed me the note.”
“Then you understand why I’m not waiting.”
“I understand.”
Marcus had researched the Hale property.
The lake estate sat on forty-two acres behind private gates.
Main house.
Guest house.
Boathouse.
Security cabin.
There was also an old service road through neighboring timberland.
“I can get us within half a mile without using the front gate,” Marcus said.
“Us?”
“You think I’m letting two civilians go alone?”
Daniel frowned. “I’m offended by civilian.”
“You turned in your badge twelve years ago. Get over it.”
Under different circumstances, I might have laughed.
Instead, we drove.
At 2:37 a.m., we parked beneath pine trees and continued on foot.
The October air cut through my thin dress.
Marcus gave me a jacket.
Through the trees, the Hale lodge appeared.
Every window glowed.
Three vehicles were parked outside.
One was Preston’s Bentley.
Another belonged to Victoria.
The third was a private ambulance.
I stopped.
“Why is there an ambulance?”
Neither man answered.
We approached the back of the house.
A kitchen window stood partially open.
Voices carried through it.
Victoria.
“You gave her too much.”
A male voice answered.
“She was fighting.”
My blood turned to ice.
Another voice.
Preston.
“I don’t care. She only needs to be disoriented enough to sign.”
“She already signed.”
“The voting proxy, yes. Not the trust amendment.”
Victoria said, “And after that?”
Silence.
Preston answered:
“The doctor documents a mental-health crisis. Caroline goes to the facility for observation. I exercise her proxy while she’s incapacitated. The Mercer vote happens Monday.”
The male voice asked:
“And if she tells anyone?”
Preston laughed softly.
“Who believes the unstable bride?”
I moved toward the window.
Daniel grabbed me.
“Wait.”
“My daughter is inside.”
“We need evidence.”
“I have evidence.”
“We need enough to put them away forever.”
Then another sound came through the window.
Caroline screaming.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!”
I tore free from Daniel.
Marcus caught me this time.
The kitchen door opened.
A man stepped outside.
White medical jacket.
He lit a cigarette.
Daniel whispered, “Doctor?”
The man walked toward the tree line.
Marcus intercepted him silently.
Thirty seconds later, the man was against a tree, his own necktie binding his wrists.
His name was Dr. Harold Wynn.
His medical bag contained sedatives.
No ambulance license.
No transport documentation.
No court order.
Marcus photographed everything.
“Where’s Caroline?” I demanded.
Wynn stared at me.
“You’re her mother.”
“Yes.”
“You need to leave.”
“Where is she?”
“If Preston sees you—”
“WHERE?”
He swallowed.
“Upstairs. East bedroom.”
“What did you give her?”
“Diazepam.”
“How much?”
“Not enough to hurt her.”
“Why?”
“I was paid to document acute emotional instability.”
Marcus’s expression hardened.
“That’s medical fraud.”
Wynn laughed bitterly.
“You think fraud is the problem here?”
We all went still.
“What does that mean?” Daniel asked.
Wynn looked toward the house.
“They aren’t planning to keep her in a facility.”
My heart stopped.
“What are they planning?”
Before he could answer, headlights swept across the trees.
A second SUV arrived.
Four men climbed out.
One of them was Gavin Cross.
The Hale security chief.
He looked directly toward the darkness where we were hiding.
Then raised his radio.
“Mrs. Mercer is here.”
Daniel whispered something I had never heard him say in front of me.
The lodge lights suddenly went out.
Every single one.
Then Caroline screamed again.
May you like
This time from upstairs.
I ran.
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