Chapter 1 - The Photograph
I stared at the photograph in my trembling hands.
The freezing Chicago rain continued to pour down heavily around us.
The woman in the picture was undeniably my wife, Sarah.
She was smiling beautifully, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a soft pink blanket.
I had buried Sarah exactly fifteen months ago after a horrific car accident.
The police had told me there were absolutely no survivors.
They had told me our unborn daughter, Lily, had perished in the flames with her.
Yet here was a terrified eight-year-old boy handing me impossible proof that my entire reality was a lie.
I looked down at Ethan, who was shivering violently in his thin, soaked jacket.
"Where did you get this picture?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper over the loud city traffic.
Ethan looked over his shoulder nervously, checking for the uniformed men.
"The nice lady gave it to me," he said.
"When did she give this to you?" I demanded, gripping his small shoulders gently.
"Yesterday," Ethan replied softly.
My heart completely stopped beating in my chest.
Sarah was actually alive.
She was alive and walking the streets of this very city just twenty-four hours ago.
I grabbed Ethan's cold hand and pulled him toward my waiting armored SUV parked at the curb.
My personal driver, Thomas, stepped out to open the door with his usual stoic expression.
Thomas had worked for me for ten years, protecting me through vicious corporate wars and deep personal tragedies.
I shoved Ethan into the warm backseat and climbed in right behind him.
"Get us to the secure penthouse immediately, Thomas," I ordered quickly.
"Right away, Mr. Whitman," Thomas replied smoothly, sliding behind the steering wheel.
The heavy armored doors of the vehicle locked with a solid, mechanical thud.
I turned to Ethan, desperate to ask him a million questions about my wife.
Then I noticed Thomas staring intensely at us through the rearview mirror.
His eyes were incredibly cold and completely devoid of their usual warmth.
The luxury car did not move toward my downtown penthouse.
Instead, Thomas pressed a hidden button on the center console, locking the rear windows.
May you like
He pulled a heavy, silenced pistol from his tailored suit jacket and aimed it directly at my chest over the seat.
"You really weren't supposed to find this boy, Mr. Whitman," Thomas said coldly.
