Chapter 223
The police captain stepped forward. “Mr. Holloway, we found something in the garage — a vehicle matching the description of the kidnapping car. We need you at the station to give a statement.”
Hilliard didn’t look at the captain. He kept his eyes fixed on Cailin.
“I’m coming back,” he said.
It was a promise. And a threat.
“I’m coming back for all of them.”
He turned and walked out, leaving Cailin crumpling to the floor — her secret laid bare in the cold, merciless pulse of the police lights.
The chaos at the estate settled into a tense, suffocating quiet after the police left.
Ashley rushed down the stairs, her face drained of color. She helped Cailin up from the floor.
“He knows,” Cailin whispered, still shaking. “He saw Elia’s mark. He heard the names.”
“We have to go,” Ashley said. “Now. Before he comes back with a court order.”
“We can’t,” Cailin said. “Kegan is in custody. The jet is grounded. The police are watching the perimeter.”
They were trapped.
Meanwhile, at the hospital.
Hilliard had spent a grueling hour at the precinct giving a carefully sanitized statement about a “business misunderstanding” at the estate — deliberately omitting enough to shield Cailin from assault charges. The moment the detective released him, he didn’t go home. He drove straight to Mount Sinai.
He walked down the hallway with his mind a blur of colliding images: Charla’s bandaged hand, Elia’s face on the landing, the Lego ninja warm in his palm.
He reached Charla’s room.
She was there. Alive. Heavily bandaged. She had been found and dropped near the ER entrance an hour earlier, shortly after the police raided Kegan’s estate.
Victoria was weeping by the bed. Gregg was shouting at a nurse.
“Where were you?” Charla screamed when she saw Hilliard. She thrust her bandaged hand toward him. “Look at this! Look what your wife did to me!”
Hilliard looked at her hand. He felt a distant flicker of pity.
“Cailin didn’t do it,” he said flatly. “Kegan did.”
“She ordered it!” Victoria shrieked. “She’s a devil!”
“She didn’t know.” He didn’t fully understand why he was defending her, but he knew it was true. The horror on Cailin’s face had been real — the kind that couldn’t be faked.
“Well, well, well.”
A slow, deliberate clap echoed from the doorway.
Hilliard turned.
Leaning against the doorframe, wearing a floral silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and oversized sunglasses, was Vance Holloway.
“Vance?” Hilliard frowned. “When did you get back from Ibiza?”
“Grandpa called,” Vance said, strolling into the room. He removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that were sharp and entirely sober. “Said the family IQ was dropping at an alarming rate and he needed me to balance the average.”
He looked at Charla. He looked at her bandaged hand.
“Ouch,” Vance said. “Nine fingers? That’s going to make counting to ten very difficult for you, darling.”
“Get out!” Charla hissed.
“Now, now,” Vance said with a click of his tongue. “Is that how you speak to your future — oh, wait. Hilliard ended the engagement, didn’t he? So you’re just… nobody.”
“Vance, enough,” Hilliard said, though without much conviction.
.