Chapter 5 - The Turning Point
By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the Mercer estate washed in pale, fragile sunlight.
In the medical suite, Jonah opened his eyes and asked for juice. It was the first time in six weeks he had requested food on his own. Blythe was sitting up against her pillows, coloring in a worn comic book Clara had found in the mansion’s neglected library.
Lawson watched from the doorway, a cup of black coffee growing cold in his hand. Prescott walked up behind him, sliding a manila folder onto the small side table.
“We got Dr. Yates’s daughter back. She’s safe. Yates is locked in the lower holding cells until further notice,” Prescott reported in a low voice. Then he hesitated, glancing sideways at Lawson. “And I finished Clara Vance’s file.”
Lawson didn’t look away from his children. “And?”
“It’s clean. Too clean,” Prescott frowned. “Three years ago, she was the lead pediatric pharmacologist at Johns Hopkins. Her research lab was burned down in a suspicious electrical fire. Her husband—also a brilliant physician—died in the blaze. The official report said accident. But the hospital board quietly buried her medical license after she accused a major pharmaceutical conglomerate of pushing lethal, unapproved trial drugs onto terminally ill children.”
Lawson’s jaw tightened. “A whistleblower.”
“More than that,” Prescott said grimly. “The pharmaceutical company backing those trials was heavily funded by shell corporations tied directly to... Crosby Vane.”
The coffee cup in Lawson’s hand nearly cracked. The air in the hallway turned arctic.
“Crosby destroyed her life,” Lawson whispered, his voice dangerously low.
“Everything she lost, she lost because of the syndicate’s pharmaceutical money-laundering ring,” Prescott confirmed. “She didn’t just wander into your gate by accident last night, boss. She tracked Crosby’s financial footprint straight to your estate because she knew he was trying to use your children to break you.”
Lawson didn’t answer. He handed the cold coffee to Prescott, turned, and walked straight down the hall toward the kitchen.
Clara was standing at the marble island, heating a small pot of chicken broth for the twins, when the heavy kitchen doors pushed open. Lawson walked in, silent as a ghost, and leaned against the counter opposite her.
“You knew,” Lawson said.
Clara didn’t look up from the stove. She stirred the broth with slow, rhythmic circles. “I knew Crosby was trying to kill your kids to destabilize your syndicate. Yes.”
“You used my children to get to him,” Lawson said, his voice carrying a dark, menacing edge.
Clara stopped stirring. She turned off the burner, set the spoon down, and finally raised her amber-green eyes to meet his.
“If I wanted to use them, I could have poisoned them last night and walked away,” Clara said, her voice cutting like glass. “Instead, I spent twelve hours scrubbing synthetic toxins out of their bloodstreams while you sat in your study drinking bourbon and feeling sorry for yourself. Do not ever mistake my survival for malice, Lawson Mercer.”
She picked up the tray of broth and pushed past him toward the door.
As she brushed against his shoulder, Lawson caught the scent of rain and clean cotton—and beneath it, the faint, metallic trace of old gunpowder and deep, unyielding sorrow.
“Clara,” he called out quietly.
May you like
She paused at the threshold without turning around.
“Crosby thinks he’s hunting us,” Lawson said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Let’s show him what happens when a wolf finds out someone was hunting his pack.”
