Chapter 3 - The Empty Cellar
At 5:15 in the morning, Landon Morrow came down the stairs carrying a leather folio and an iced tumbler of black coffee.
He was dressed in fresh charcoal trousers and an Egyptian cotton dress shirt, collar open, cuffs rolled twice. He looked composed, the image of an executive who had spent the night resolving a delicate logistical issue.
Behind him, Cleo stood at the top of the stairs, still wrapped in Elise’s ivory chenille robe, holding an unlit cigarette.
"Just make her sign the irrevocable waiver on the Cayman LLC," Cleo said, her voice husky from sleep. "Then call Dr. Miller. If she goes to a real hospital, they have mandatory reporting for third-trimester falls."
"Miller is already on retainer," Landon said without looking back. "She signs, we take her to his private clinic in Jersey City, and she spends the next three months under observation until the child is delivered."
"And after?"
Landon didn't answer. He didn't need to. Elise was brilliant with spreadsheets, but she was naive about power. Power didn't share custody, and power didn't leave disgruntled forensic auditors wandering the earth with copies of corporate ledgers.
He reached the landing. The single sixty-watt bulb hummed overhead.
The floor was empty.
Landon stopped. His eyes swept across the cold gray flagstones. The puddle of spilled wine was dry. But there was no crumpled body. No weeping wife clutching her belly.
Only two rings sat on the seventh step.
Landon dropped the folio. Paperwork scattered across the flagstones. "Elise?"
Silence answered him, thick and mocking.
He rushed toward the wine racks, his polished leather shoes slipping slightly on the dust. The racks were undisturbed, row after row of vintage labels staring back at him like blind eyes. Then he saw the iron furnace plate.
The heavy hatch was hanging wide open. Mud, dried moss, and a single smear of blood marked the rim of the chute.
"Landon?" Cleo called from above, panic edging into her voice. "What is it? Did she pass out?"
Landon walked slowly to the open chute. He knelt, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the rusted iron edge. He touched the blood with his index finger. It was cold. Tacky. She had been gone for hours.
"Landon!" Cleo appeared on the lower steps, her bare feet halting as she saw the empty room. "Where is she?"
Landon slowly stood up. His chest heaved once, twice. The veneer of corporate calm split down the middle, revealing the violent, territorial predator beneath.
"She went out through the old coal line," he whispered.
"What? She was injured! She was barely breathing!" Cleo’s hands flew to her mouth. "Landon, she took her car keys—"
"Her keys are on the kitchen island," Landon snarled, rounding on her so fast Cleo flinched backward. "Her phone is on the counter! Her purse is by the entryway! She didn't take an Uber, Cleo. She had a plan."
"Who would help her? She doesn't have family left! Her father died three years ago, her firm is locked out—"
"Dominic Vance," Landon spat. He kicked a wooden crate of Chianti, sending shattered glass and dark red liquid spraying across the stones. "Vance ran black-ops recovery for the Marshals before he started his corporate security firm. She hired him during the port authority audit two years ago."
Cleo’s face drained of color. "If she talks to the feds—"
"She won't talk to the feds yet," Landon cut in, his jaw working violently as he pulled his gold phone from his pocket. "Elise doesn't move until she has every column balanced. She doesn't call an agent until she has the primary ledger."
He tapped a speed-dial number. It rang once.
"Marco," Landon ordered into the receiver. "Lock down every private airstrip between Teterboro and Boston. Put eyes on Vance’s offices in Manhattan and his home in Greenwich. If you see my wife, you do not engage in public. You bag her, you bring her to the warehouse at Pier 42, and you make sure she doesn't speak to anyone."
He hung up, his breathing ragged.
He looked down at the two rings on the stone step. He picked them up, his thumb running over the diamond.
May you like
"You think you won, Elise," he muttered to the empty cellar. "You think you can take my daughter and run." He closed his fist until the platinum edges bit deep into his palm. "I built this city. I own the docks, I own the courts, and I own you."
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