Chapter 2 - The Missing Child's Drawing
The silence in the foyer was absolute.
I looked at Owen. My older brother, the man who had protected me from every playground bully and broken heart, looked physically ill. The heavy, black leather case containing his tattoo equipment trembled slightly in his grip.
"Owen," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "What is he talking about? What did he ask you to design?"
Christopher leaned against the mahogany console table, crossing his muscular, heavily tattooed arms. He wasn't wearing the smug, arrogant smile he usually reserved for his business rivals. He looked desperate. And dangerous.
"Tell her, Owen," Christopher ordered, his voice dropping an octave. "Tell her why you came here tonight."
Madison, standing beside Christopher, frowned, her perfect blonde eyebrows knitting together. "Christopher, what is going on? You said we were just getting matching tattoos."
Christopher ignored her completely. His eyes were locked on my brother.
Owen swallowed hard, avoiding my gaze. He slowly opened the clasps on his leather case. He didn't pull out a tattoo gun or ink.
He pulled out a crumpled, slightly torn piece of paper. It looked like a child's drawing.
"Last Tuesday," Owen began, his voice cracking. "Christopher came to the shop after hours. He brought me this."
He handed the paper to me. My hands shook as I took it.
It was a drawing done in messy blue crayon. It depicted three stick figures: a tall man, a woman with long hair, and a small child holding a red balloon. At the bottom, written in clumsy, blocky letters, was the name LILY.
My breath hitched in my throat.
Answer One, Open Two. Christopher hadn't just gone to Owen to design a cover-up for my name. He had gone to him with a drawing of a child. But if Christopher and I didn't have any children yet, who did this drawing belong to? And why did it make Owen look so terrified?
"I don't understand," I breathed, tracing the crayon lines. "Who is Lily?"
Owen finally looked at me, tears welling in his eyes. "That's what I asked him, Sarah. He told me he needed me to perfectly replicate that drawing onto his left shoulder blade. He said it was a matter of life and death. And he paid me fifty thousand dollars in cash to do it, and to never speak of it again."
Fifty thousand dollars. My brother’s shop had been on the verge of bankruptcy for six months. He had taken the money to save his livelihood.
"You took his money to hide a secret child?" I asked, the betrayal stinging sharper than the affair.
"It's not his child, Sarah," Owen choked out.
"Then whose is it?" I demanded.
"It's mine," a quiet voice said from the shadows of the living room archway.
We all turned.
Standing there, wearing the gray uniform of our housekeeping staff, was Maria. She was thirty-five, quiet, and had worked for us for two years.
But she wasn't looking at me. She was staring at Christopher with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.
"Maria?" I asked, utterly bewildered.
"That drawing belongs to my daughter, Lily," Maria said, stepping into the foyer. She wasn't holding a dusting cloth. She was holding a suppressed, sleek black handgun.
May you like
She aimed it directly at my husband's chest.
"Where is she, Christopher?" Maria demanded, her hands steady, her voice devoid of any warmth. "You promised me if I gave you the blueprints to the Rossi compound, you'd bring her back to me tonight."
