Chapter 7 - The Cold Trail
The silence inside Greyhaven House was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
It was three days after the storm. The coastal estate had been restored to its pristine condition; the blood had been scrubbed from the Italian marble hallway, the fallen oak branches cleared from the lawn, and the iron gates repaired.
Inside the primary communications suite, Vincent Caruso stood before a massive glass whiteboard covered in timelines, maps, and high-resolution surveillance photographs.
Standing before him were four men—his chief of security, two former FBI intelligence specialists he had hired at astronomical rates, and Owen Mercer.
“Explain it to me again,” Vincent said. His voice was dangerously quiet, a smooth, terrifying purr that sent a chill through the room. “Because I am having a difficult time understanding how a woman who underwent major abdominal surgery seventy-two hours ago vanished from a secure medical facility surrounded by twelve of my men.”
The lead investigator, a lean man named Vance, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mr. Caruso... she didn't use any commercial transit. Her credit cards haven't been swiped. Her cell phone was left in the hospital drawer, completely wiped. We’ve monitored every airport, train station, and rental car agency from Boston to New York. Nothing.”
“She had help,” Owen stated, stepping forward. “Nora Bell’s nephew drives a commercial linen truck for the hospital. We interviewed him this morning.”
Vincent’s eyes locked onto Owen. “And?”
“He claims he didn't see anything,” Owen said. “He says he left the bay at seven o'clock, made his deliveries, and returned the truck to the depot. But surveillance footage from a gas station on Route 2 shows his truck stopping beside a blue Volvo at seven-thirty.”
“Who owns the Volvo?” Vincent demanded.
“Registered to a dead woman in Vermont,” Vance interjected. “It was bought at a cash auction three weeks ago. The paper trail ends in a graveyard.”
Vincent slammed his open palm against the glass whiteboard. The loud CRACK echoed through the room, making two of the analysts flinch.
“I don't care about paper trails!” Vincent spat, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw tight with suppressed rage. “I want my son! Find Arthur Pendelton!”
“We tried, sir,” Vance replied cautiously. “Pendelton retired from the bar five years ago. He liquidated his Boston assets last year. His current residential address is a P.O. Box in the Cayman Islands. Legally, he’s a ghost.”
Vincent turned his back on them, staring out the sweeping bay window toward the gray, churning ocean.
In the three days since Claire had vanished, his life had descended into a quiet, humiliating nightmare. The news of his divorce petition had leaked to the financial press, sending shockwaves through Caruso Logistics’ board of directors. Key international investors were suddenly raising questions about his personal stability and corporate governance.
And then there was Elise.
He had visited her at the private clinic two days ago. She was safe, recovered, sitting in a sunny private room surrounded by the expensive flowers he had ordered for her. But when he looked at her face, he felt nothing. No warmth. No relief. No triumph.
All he saw was the woman whose panicked voice on a radio screen had cost him his wife and his son.
When Elise had reached out to touch his hand, asking when he was moving her into Greyhaven, Vincent had pulled his hand away, left the room without speaking a word, and instructed his team to cut her monthly allowance by half.
He didn't love Elise. He had never loved Elise. She had been an asset, a trophy, a distraction from the crushing weight of his empire.
Claire had been his foundation.
He pulled his hand from his pocket, staring at the two rings sitting in his palm—the five-carat diamond and the platinum band she had left on the hospital bedside table beside her brief note.
You chose her. I chose him.
“Mr. Caruso?” Vance spoke up tentatively from behind him. “Should we expand the search to national private investigator networks? It will cost—”
“I don't care what it costs,” Vincent growled, his fingers closing tightly over the rings, the metal cutting into his skin. “Put a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer on every elite tracking firm in the country. Hire marine spotters. Check every small harbor from Cape Cod to the Canadian border.”
May you like
He turned around, his dark eyes burning with an obsessive, relentless fire.
“She thinks she can raise my heir in the shadows,” Vincent whispered, his voice laced with terrifying conviction. “She thinks she can make me a ghost in his life. Find her.”
