Chapter 3 - Beneath the Housemaid’s Apron
After securing my daughters in the panic room beneath the master suite, I escorted Claire into my soundproof study. The blood on her arms had begun to dry, accentuating the brutal tapestry of scars etched into her skin. I unholstered my pistol and laid it on the heavy mahogany desk between us.
"No ordinary housemaid removes a hollow-point bullet from a femoral artery while throwing medical gear with deadly accuracy," I demanded, leaning over the desk. "Who are you really, Claire? Who sent you into my house?"
Claire stood unbothered, her arms crossed over her chest. "My real name is Dr. Claire Whitman. Before I worked for your domestic agency, I was a lead trauma surgeon for an elite military joint special operations task force. I served eight years in active combat zones across North Africa and the Middle East."
She gestured toward the scars on her arms. "The burns are from a mortar strike on a field hospital in Fallujah. The bullet wound near my elbow was courtesy of a rogue militia lieutenant in Syria. I left the service after uncovering high-level military brass trafficking weapons to private cartels. They erased my medical license and put a hit on my name. I took a fake identity and took a job where nobody would ever ask about my past."
I stared at her, reassessing every detail of the woman who had lived under my roof for six weeks. "And why my home? Out of all the wealthy families in Chicago?"
May you like
Claire’s eyes softened slightly as she looked toward the doorway. "Because three years ago, I was the trauma surgeon on call at Chicago General when your wife was brought in after the car bomb. I tried for four hours to save her life, Mr. Vale. I failed. When I saw your daughters’ names on the placement list, I felt I owed them a debt of protection. I didn't come here to spy on your cartel. I came to make sure those little girls stayed safe."
---
