Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Whitmore Manor
The miracle of my walking vanished into complete insignificance within a fraction of a second.
The sister we had mourned, the sister my father had died believing was murdered by human traffickers or buried in an unmarked grave, was alive. And this boy—this miracle-worker in rags—was her son. My nephew.
"Charles!" Arthur Vance yelled, pushing past Marcus and reaching down to grab my arm. "This is insane! The boy is clearly a street pickpocket who found a stolen heirloom! We need to call the police, get you to a hospital to examine your legs, and—"
"Touch him, Arthur, and I will tear your arm out of its socket," I snarled, my voice laced with a lethal coldness that shocked even myself.
Arthur froze, stepping back with his hands raised, his eyes flickering nervously toward the boy.
I turned back to my nephew. "What is your name, son?"
"Leo," he rasped, his knees buckling under the weight of severe exhaustion. His eyes fluttered, the incredible power he had used to heal my nerves having drained every ounce of his bodily energy.
"Marcus!" I roared, standing up easily on my sturdy legs, surprising myself with how natural the movement felt. "Clear a path! We are leaving now!"
"Sir, the press is outside—" Marcus began.
"I don't care about the press! Clear the path!"
I scooped Leo into my arms. He was dangerously light, his small ribs pressing sharply against my suit jacket. Holding him against my chest, I felt a terrible, burning anger building inside me. Who had dared to let a child of Whitmore blood fall into such horrific poverty? Who had bruised his hands?
We bypassed the main lobby, using the private VIP elevators down to the subterranean garage. Marcus opened the heavy armored door of my dark Maybach, and I slid into the back seat, keeping Leo resting against my shoulder.
As the car roared out of the Plaza's underground entrance, turning onto the rain-slicked streets of Fifth Avenue, I looked back out the tinted window.
Standing near the street barricades, partially hidden in the shadow of a concrete pillar, was a dark sedan with blacked-out windows. The moment my Maybach pulled into traffic, the sedan's headlights flickered to life, trailing us at a discreet distance.
"Marcus," I said, looking into the rearview mirror. "We're being followed."
"I see them, sir," Marcus replied calmly, his eyes scanning the side mirrors. "Looks like a dark grey SUV. No license plates. Should I lose them?"
"No," I said, stroking Leo's messy hair. "Drive straight to the Manor. I want to see who dares follow a Whitmore home."
I looked down at the gold pocket watch resting on Leo's chest. I reached out and carefully opened the back compartment of the watch—a secret hinge that only family members knew existed.
Inside, behind a thin sheet of glass, was a tiny, faded photograph.
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It showed a beautiful, smiling teenage girl with long blonde hair and bright green eyes, holding a newborn baby in her arms. Beneath the picture, written in elegant cursive script with black fountain pen ink, were six words:
To my brother, Charles. Save us.
