Chapter 1: The Glass Doors Between Us
The light in the study never moved that fast in the afternoon. It fell soft and diffused through the tall arched windows, catching the dark wood paneling and the stone trim around the fireplace, warming the lamp glow by the desk. I was standing in profile near the window with my hands at my sides, and Lily's small hand was resting on my torso like she needed to make sure I wouldn't step away. In front of us the wood desk held exactly what it always held — an open book face up, a glass decanter with three fingers of amber still in it, a spherical paperweight that caught the daylight and threw it back.
Outside, through the diamond-pattern leaded glass of the double doors, the black SUV sat where it always sat on the driveway. My driver's SUV. My security man's SUV. The one person I trusted to keep this house sealed and quiet was parked right there while a three-year-old in a white dress clung to my shirt inside my house.
My name is Julian Mercer.
That afternoon should have been quiet. Lily had been with me less than an hour. Her mother Elena had gone missing forty-eight hours before, and the county sheriff had told me to keep Lily inside the mansion until they could figure out the timeline. I hadn't expected her to go still against my leg, to lift her right hand and point straight through those arched doors with tears already running.
She did it without looking at me. Her blonde ponytail had slipped a little to one side, her white tights were smudged at the knee, and her breathing had gone shallow and fast. I could hear it. I could feel her fingers tighten on my shirt.
"That's him."
Her voice was small and raw. She didn't shout it. She said it like she was trying not to be heard through the glass.
I looked down at her. I didn't answer right away. My neck felt tight under the tattoo and my hand — the one with the lettering on the fingers and the large design on the back — stayed where it was, not touching her yet.
"That's who?" I asked.
She kept pointing. Her mouth was open, her eyes fixed on the figure beyond the doors. She took another breath that hitched.
"He took my mommy."
The words landed before I could make sense of them. Through the leaded glass I could see the silhouette more clearly now — dark suit, shoulders squared near the black SUV, facing toward the house. I knew that stance. I knew the cut of that jacket. Vic Keller had driven for me for two years. He'd parked that SUV in that exact spot a hundred times and walked up these steps without me ever thinking twice.
Lily's pointing hand was still in the foreground, trembling. I knelt then. The wood floor creaked under my knee. I pulled her in and she came instantly, wrapping both arms around my neck, her white dress bunching against my black button-up. My left wrist came around her back — gold watch catching the warm lamp light — and I held her with my tattooed hand flat between her shoulder blades.
For a second I just breathed with her there by the window and desk, trying to keep my own breathing even so she wouldn't feel me go tense. Vic hadn't moved outside. He was waiting. That was his job, to wait until I told him.
I looked outward through the glass again over Lily's shoulder. I should have said something else to her. You're safe. Are you sure? Instead I kept my voice low and even, the way you'd speak if a child was listening to every sound you made.
"Come in."
The knock had already happened — two sharp raps on the wood frame of the arched doors at the same moment I'd knelt. Now, through the closed doors, his voice came muffled by the glass but clear enough in the quiet study.
May you like
"Afternoon, boss."
I didn't answer. I didn't stand. I held Lily tighter from behind, her back to my chest, her arms locked around my neck, my hand spread protective over her. The doors stayed closed between us and him, the diamond-pattern glass holding his shape just out of focus, the black SUV idling faintly beyond him on the driveway. We stayed like that — her breathing against me, the decanter untouched on the desk, the afternoon light not moving — with his shadow waiting on the other side of the glass for me to turn the handle.
