I didn't sleep again.
I sat beside Noah until dawn with my back against the headboard, watching rain crawl down the enormous windows.
Every few minutes, I replayed the words I'd heard.
We ran her background.
Something you need to see.
I had no criminal record.
No secret identity.
No hidden fortune.
I was Olivia Bennett, twenty-nine years old, divorced, broke, and doing my best to raise a little boy without letting him realize how close we sometimes came to disaster.
So what could possibly be in a file about me?
At six thirty, Noah woke and immediately asked the question every mother loves hearing in a stranger's mansion.
"Where's breakfast?"
I stared at him.
"Good morning to you too."
He sat up, hair sticking in every direction.
"Is scary John here?"
"We're going to stop calling him that."
"But that's his name."
"His name is John."
"Scary John."
"No."
"Mr. Scary John?"
I sighed.
"Please put on your socks."
Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Harper knocked.
She was in her early sixties, silver-haired and elegant, with the kind of posture that made everyone else stand straighter.
"Breakfast is downstairs."
"We really should leave."
"The roads are still partially flooded."
"I can drive carefully."
Mrs. Harper studied me.
"Mr. Walker asked that you eat first."
"Does Mr. Walker always get what he asks for?"
"Usually."
"That sounds exhausting."
For the first time, Mrs. Harper smiled.
"You have no idea."
Breakfast was served in a smaller dining room overlooking the gardens.
John was already there.
No jacket.
Black shirt.
Coffee.
Newspaper.
Terrifyingly normal.
Noah climbed onto a chair across from him.
"Hi, John."
John lowered the paper.
"Morning, kid."
"You still look scary."
"Noah."
John took a sip of coffee.
"I've looked worse."
Noah considered this.
"Do you have pancakes?"
John looked toward Mrs. Harper.
Apparently Chicago's most feared man did, in fact, have pancakes.
While Noah ate, I watched John.
He didn't mention the conversation I'd overheard.
Neither did I.
Finally, he set down his coffee.
"How long have you lived in Chicago?"
My fork stopped.
"Most of my life."
"Where did you grow up?"
"Why?"
"Conversation."
"People don't usually conduct conversation like an interrogation."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Noah poured syrup onto a strawberry.
John leaned back.
"Your former husband. Daniel Bennett."
There it was.
My stomach tightened.
"What about him?"
"When did you last see him?"
"Three years ago."
"Does he contact Noah?"
"No."
"Why?"
I put my fork down.
"That's none of your business."
John's jaw moved.
"No, it isn't."
That answer surprised me.
Then he added, "But it may become my business if someone connected to him is watching my house."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What?"
John slid a photograph across the table.
I stared at it.
A man stood beside a dark sedan across from the estate.
The image was grainy.
But I knew him.
Not Daniel.
His brother.
"Eric."
"You recognize him."
"He's my ex-husband's older brother."
"When did you last see him?"
"Years ago."
John's eyes stayed on me.
"He's been outside this estate twice since you started working here."
My mouth went dry.
"Why?"
"That's what I'm trying to determine."
I looked at Noah.
He was humming quietly to his dinosaur, unaware.
"Daniel owed people money," I said.
John didn't move.
"What kind of people?"
"The kind who don't send friendly reminder letters."
"How much?"
"I don't know. He gambled. Borrowed. Lied."
"And you left."
"I took Noah and left."
"Did Daniel ever use your name for anything?"
My silence answered him.
John's expression hardened.
"Olivia."
"He opened accounts."
"Under your name?"
"Some."
"Anything else?"
"I don't know."
John looked furious.
Not at me.
That somehow made it worse.
"Why didn't you report him?"
"I did. Some of it. But proving financial abuse isn't as simple as people think. Daniel disappeared before everything was sorted out."
John pushed his chair back.
Noah looked up.
"Are you mad?"
John stopped.
His expression changed immediately.
"No, kid."
"You look mad."
John glanced at me.
"I'm thinking."
Noah nodded, satisfied.
I wasn't.
After breakfast, John asked Mrs. Harper to take Noah to see the indoor garden.
I stood immediately.
"No."
John looked at me.
"He's safe with her."
"I don't know that."
Mrs. Harper didn't look offended.
John did.
Then he seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say.
"You can see the garden from the study."
That was how I ended up inside John Walker's private office.
The room was lined with books, dark wood, and windows overlooking a glass conservatory where Noah was enthusiastically showing Mrs. Harper his dinosaur.
John closed the door.
"Eric Bennett has connections to a man named Michael Caruso."
The name meant nothing to me.
My face must have shown it.
"That's good," John said.
"Why?"
"Because Caruso is someone you don't want to know."
A cold sensation moved through me.
"What does he want?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Because your son is involved."
My fear became anger.
"Noah isn't involved in anything."
"Someone photographed you bringing him here last night."
My heart stopped.
John placed another image on his desk.
Olivia in the rain.
Noah in my arms.
Taken from outside the gates.
I stared at it.
"Who took this?"
"We don't know."
I backed away.
"I need to leave."
"That's the opposite of what you should do."
"I need to get my son and go."
"To your apartment?"
"Yes."
"Where anyone can walk through the front entrance?"
"Stop."
"Where Eric Bennett already knows you live?"
"Stop."
John's voice softened.
"Olivia."
"You don't get to scare me into staying."
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
The words silenced me.
Outside, Noah laughed.
I looked through the window.
He was holding Sir Chomps-a-Lot above his head.
Normal.
Happy.
Safe.
"I don't want this world anywhere near him," I whispered.
John stood beside me.
"Neither do I."
I looked at him.
Something in his face made me ask, "Do you have children?"
He went completely still.
I'd crossed a line.
"I'm sorry."
"No."
He turned toward the window.
"I had a younger brother."
Had.
The word carried its own explanation.
"His name was Matthew."
John's voice was quieter now.
"He was thirteen years younger than me. After our mother died, I practically raised him."
"What happened?"
"He trusted the wrong person."
There was no emotion in John's tone.
That made the grief more obvious.
"He died?"
"Eight years ago."
"I'm sorry."
John nodded once.
Through the glass, Noah pressed Sir Chomps-a-Lot against the window.
John almost smiled.
Suddenly, the office door opened.
One of the guards entered.
"Boss."
John turned.
The man's face was serious.
"We checked Ms. Bennett's apartment."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
John's gaze sharpened.
"What happened?"
The guard looked at me.
"Someone broke in."
I grabbed the desk.
"Noah—"
"He's here," John said immediately. "He's safe."
"What did they take?"
The guard hesitated.
"Nothing obvious."
"Then what were they looking for?"
"We found something."
He held up a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
I recognized it instantly.
Daniel.
My ex-husband.
And beside him stood Michael Caruso.
But that wasn't what made my blood turn cold.
Written across the back in black ink were six words:
SHE HAS WHAT DANIEL STOLE.
John read them.
Then he looked at me.
"Olivia."
"I don't know what that means."
His eyes stayed on mine.
"I believe you."
That should have comforted me.
It didn't.
Because the next thing John said changed everything.
"But whoever broke into your apartment doesn't."