Chapter 2 - The Weight of a Debt
The steel door clicked open again, and Ethan stepped back into the room, followed closely by Dr. Julian Parker, our family physician for twenty years, who looked entirely out of place carrying his black leather medical bag across the cracked concrete floor. Behind Parker stood Mrs. Higgins, our head housekeeper, clutching a stack of thick flannel blankets and a warmed bottle of milk with the grim determination of a general marching into battle.
“Boss,” Ethan muttered, keeping his eyes on the woman. “Parker’s here.”
I didn't look at the doctor. My gaze remained locked on the woman in the gray sweater. She was still pressed into the corner of the cot, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps, her arms wrapped around Noah as if she expected us to rip him from her embrace by main force.
“Let the doctor look at the boy,” I said, keeping my tone level. “He was out in a damp room during a violent storm. If he has a fever, he needs attention.”
“I gave him dry clothes,” she rasped, her voice thick with defiance. Her chin was smeared with dried blood from a split lip, and the purple bruise around her eye had darkened to an ugly shade of plum. “He’s warm. He’s fed. He doesn't need your doctor.”
“Miss—” I paused, realizing I didn't even know her name.
“Maeve,” she spat out before I could ask. “Maeve Murphy.”
“Miss Murphy,” I said, rising slowly to my full height, towering over the narrow cot. “You are currently sitting in a reinforced sub-basement beneath an estate surrounded by armed men. You are holding the sole heir to the Mercer family—a family that currently believes you are either a kidnapper or an accomplice to murder. If I wanted to take that child from your arms, I wouldn't need a doctor’s permission or a polite conversation. I could have four men in here in five seconds to pin you to the floor while I take him.”
Maeve flinched. The raw truth of my words hit her harder than any physical blow. Her arms tightened around Noah until the baby let out another fretful cry, protesting the pressure.
Yet, despite the undeniable reality of her situation, she didn't surrender. Instead, her jaw set into a stubborn, furious line.
“Then give the order,” she whispered, her voice shaking with adrenaline. “Tell your thugs to hold me down. Tear him out of my arms. But you’ll have to break every bone in my hands to do it, Mr. Mercer. And when you look down at that baby, you’ll know you had to crush a woman to death just to steal him back.”
The room went dead silent. Even Ethan shifted uncomfortably near the door, sliding his hand away from his holster.
For a long, tense moment, I stared down at her. In my world, obedience was bought, threatened, or enforced at gunpoint. People begged for mercy; they groveled; they offered up names, money, and secrets to save their own skins.
Maeve Murphy wasn't begging for anything. She wasn't asking for a lawyer, a phone call, or a deal. She was defending a baby who wasn't even hers—a baby she had supposedly kidnapped according to my preliminary intelligence reports.
“Dr. Parker,” I said quietly, never breaking eye contact with her. “Examine the child.”
Parker stepped forward cautiously, opening his black bag. He was an older man with graying hair and tired eyes that had seen too many bullet wounds in the Mercer family history to be easily shocked. “Miss Murphy, please. I’m just going to listen to his chest. I won't take him from you.”
Maeve hesitated, her green eyes darting between Parker and me. Slowly, grudgingly, she loosened her grip just enough for the doctor to slide a pediatric stethoscope against Noah’s back.
The baby whimpered, shifting against her chest, his tiny fingers still tangled in the silver St. Jude medal.
Parker listened for thirty agonizing seconds, moving the cold metal disk systematically across the infant's chest and back. Finally, he straightened up, closing his bag with a quiet snap.
“Well?” I asked.
“Lungs are clear, Gabriel,” Parker said, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief. “Heart rate is normal. He’s slightly dehydrated, but nothing a few ounces of proper formula won't fix. Aside from a mild diaper rash, he’s remarkably healthy.”
I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I looked back down at Maeve. Her shoulders dropped half an inch, the fierce, trembling tension in her body easing just enough for her to cradle Noah’s head properly against her arm.
“Mrs. Higgins,” I said, gesturing to the housekeeper. “Give her the bottle and the blankets.”
Mrs. Higgins stepped forward, her stern face softening as she looked at the baby. She placed the warm bottle and the flannel blankets on the edge of the cot. Maeve eyed her warily, then reached out with one hand—her fingers shaking visibly—to grab the bottle. She tested the temperature against her wrist before guiding the rubber nipple toward Noah’s mouth.
The baby instantly latched on, the frantic crying stopping as he began to feed with greedy, rhythmic sucks.
“How long?” I asked softly.
Maeve didn't look up from the baby. “How long what?”
“How long have you had him?”
“Three months.”
The words dropped into the cold room like lead weights.
Three months.
That meant she had taken him—or received him—virtually the exact night Michael and Elena were killed on Hanover Street.
“Where did you get him?” My voice hardened, the temporary relief evaporating, replaced by the cold, razor-sharp focus of an investigator hunting for blood.
Maeve finally raised her head. Her green eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something other than fear or defiance in them.
May you like
I saw profound, aching exhaustion.
“I didn't steal him, Mr. Mercer,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite her bruised face. “And if you want to know who did, you’re going to have to listen to a story you aren't going to like.”
