Part 2: Clara’s heart stopped

Part 2: Clara’s heart stopped

Marcus turned

Another man reached under his jacket.

Mia did not notice the gun.

She noticed the disrespect.

“My mom works twelve hours while normal people sleep,” Mia said, her little voice ringing through the diner. “She scrubs this floor because she says people like clean things. And you came in here tracking mud and threw your bag on my table like we’re trash.”

The diner held its breath.

Slowly, Davin Vale turned around.

He looked at the child the way a man looked at a bird landing on the barrel of a rifle.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Mia blinked.

“No.”

Davin stared at her.

Then his eyes dropped to the table.

To the drawing.

To the heavy tarnished silver bullet pendant.

His face changed.

Not much. Not enough for most people to notice. But Marcus had spent seven years standing at Davin’s shoulder, and he saw it.

Davin stopped breathing.

The bullet was

a .45 caliber hollow point, silver-plated, scratched deeply across one side. The scratch was jagged, unmistakable, left by surgical pliers nine years ago when that exact bullet had been dug out of Davin’s shoulder.

He had put it on a cord.

He had given it to his little sister, Elena.

And when Elena was taken from his car on a rainy highway, that bullet had vanished with her.

Davin’s bloodshot eyes snapped back to Mia.

For one split second, the ruthless mask shattered.

Then he said one word.

“Marcus.”

Marcus stepped forward.

The entire diner stiffened.

But he did not pull a weapon. He crouched on the filthy floor in six-hundred-dollar Italian shoes and began picking up crayons one by one, placing them carefully back into the cardboard box.

Clara finally moved.

She rushed out from behind the counter, grabbed Mia, and pulled her behind her legs. In the same

motion, she swept the silver bullet pendant off the table and buried it in her apron pocket.

“Sir, I’m so sorry,” Clara stammered. “She’s tired. She didn’t mean disrespect. Please sit anywhere. Coffee is on the house. Just please don’t hurt us.”

Davin stared at the top of her head.

He saw her shaking hands.

He saw the terror.

He saw the way she placed her body between him and the child.

His instincts screamed at him to demand the truth. To pin this woman against the wall and tear answers from her.

Where did you get that necklace?

Where is Elena?

But if that child was Elena’s blood, one wrong move could destroy everything.

So Davin forced his fists to open.

He gave one slow nod.

Ten minutes later, the black Cadillac pulled away from the Starlight Diner. Davin sat in the back seat, his head turned slightly toward

the rear windshield, staring at the fading neon sign.

Marcus nearly missed a red light.

In seven years, he had never seen Davin Vale look back.

“Marcus,” Davin said at last.

“Yes, sir.”

“The child.”

Marcus waited.

“Find out everything. Her name. Her address. Her school. Her doctor. What she had for breakfast. And the mother.” Davin’s voice scraped like broken glass. “I want her whole life on my desk.”

Marcus wrote it down.

He did not ask why.

Men who asked Davin Vale why usually regretted it.

Forty-eight hours later, the Vale estate stood like a fortress on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Inside a study lined with walnut shelves, Davin sat behind his grandfather’s desk.

The desk was perfectly clear.

Davin disliked clutter.

His mind was loud enough.

Marcus knocked twice and entered with a gray file folder. The folder was thin.

Too thin.

“That’s everything?” Davin asked.---