Chapter 42 - the sound of running water
The distraction lasted half a second, but half a second was an eternity.
Julian lunged forward, throwing his entire weight across the rain-slicked marble. The detonator flew from his grip, skipping across the floor toward the base of the grand clock, but his body slammed into Richard with the force of a freight train. Both men went tumbling down the staircase in a violent knot of limbs, wet wool, and muffled blows.
"Marcus! Get Lily!" Julian roared as Richard's gun discharged into the ceiling, raining plaster and splinters over the foyer.
I didn't wait for another breath. I turned on my heel and took the stairs three at a time, vaulting over the twisted balustrade where Nora lay. I checked her pulse as I sprinted past—weak, but fast and steady. She was alive.
The hallway to the nursery was choked with thick, acrid smoke that smelled of sulfur and burnt copper. The emergency lights were flickering in erratic bursts of orange. The floorboards were slick with rainwater blowing in through the smashed window at the far end of the corridor.
"Clara!" I screamed, tearing through the smoke. "Lily!"
Inside the nursery, the scene was carnage. The intruder lay face down near the shattered window, motionless, a heavy brass fire iron embedded deep into his shoulder blade. Above him stood Clara. Her hair was soaked, plastered against her pale, blood-spattered face. Her hands were trembling violently, clutching an antique fire poker like a spear, her knuckles split and bleeding.
Curled tightly inside the hollow base of the vintage mahogany armoire—a hidden compartment Ethan had built during our childhood when we played spies—was Lily.
She was clutching her stuffed yellow rabbit against her chest with both arms, her enormous brown eyes staring out through the crack in the wood. She wasn't crying. Her shock was so absolute, so complete, that she had gone entirely mute.
"Marcus," Clara gasped, her voice breaking into a dry sob as she dropped the weapon. It clattered against the hardwood floor. "He... he tried to put her in a canvas bag. He had zip ties. Marcus, he had zip ties..."
I crossed the room in two strides, wrapping one arm around Clara's shaking shoulders while reaching into the dark recess of the armoire with the other. The moment my fingers touched Lily's small arm, she let out a piercing wail and threw herself into my neck, burying her face into my collar with a grip so fierce it felt like iron.
"I’ve got you," I whispered against her damp hair, my heart tearing in two. "I’ve got you, baby. You're safe. Uncle Marcus has you."
"The purse," Lily sobbed into my skin, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt. "Uncle Marcus, the bad man took my pink purse. Daddy’s secret is in the purse."
My blood ran cold. Daddy's secret.
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I looked at Clara. Her face had drained of whatever color remained. She slowly lifted her hand and pointed toward the hallway behind me.
"Richard took it," Clara whispered, tears carving clean trails through the soot on her cheeks. "Marcus, you don't understand what Ethan left inside the lining. It isn't bank codes. It's the coordinates to the second grave."
