Chapter 4 - THE LITTLE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED THE RED TRUCK
“Whose men are inside my house, Mrs. Gable?”
My voice was quiet.
That made her more frightened.
She set the medication tray on my desk and closed the library door.
“Two of the guards Adrian sent after your accident. They report to him, not Carmine.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“And you said nothing?”
She looked down.
“I was afraid of what would happen if I did.”
I held up the agreement.
“Is this your signature?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
“Did you witness me signing?”
“No.”
That single word seemed to change the temperature of the room.
Mrs. Gable had been with my family for twenty-three years. She'd cared for my mother during her final illness. After my father died, she'd kept the mansion running while I turned myself into a man other people feared.
I'd never imagined having to question her honesty.
“Then why did you sign?”
“Adrian told me it was a form confirming that your personal belongings had been transferred to the hospital. The signature page was separate.”
“You didn't read it?”
“I asked for the other pages. He told me I'd lose my job if I delayed.”
She wiped her cheek.
“I should have refused.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
She accepted the words without defending herself.
That almost made it worse.
I looked toward the hallway.
“Who else knows?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we're going to find out.”
The first thing I did was order Carmine to remove the two guards Adrian had hired.
They refused.
Not openly.
They claimed their assignments couldn't be changed without authorization from corporate security.
My corporate security.
A department supposedly controlled by me.
I stared at the taller guard.
“Who pays your salary?”
“Carter Holdings, sir.”
“And whose name is on that building?”
He didn't answer.
“Pack your things.”
The second guard reached toward his radio.
Carmine stepped forward.
“Don't.”
Something in his voice changed their minds.
Within twenty minutes, both men were gone.
But I knew they'd report everything to Adrian.
I also knew I had just declared war against someone who understood every weakness in my organization.
That afternoon, I asked Carmine to arrange an appointment with Dr. Elaine Porter, the rehabilitation specialist I'd refused to see for two months.
He looked surprised.
“You're serious?”
“Apparently, my legs are becoming a company policy issue. I'd like a doctor who remembers they're attached to a human being.”
Carmine almost laughed.
Then his expression darkened.
“Adrian won't like it.”
“That's becoming a promising reason to do things.”
Faith found me in the physical therapy room.
I hadn't entered it in eleven weeks.
The parallel bars stood untouched.
A therapy mat rested against the wall.
Everything smelled faintly of disinfectant and failure.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked.
“Admiring expensive equipment.”
She glanced at the bars.
“You want to try?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She turned toward the doorway.
“That's it?” I demanded.
“What?”
“You're not going to give me some speech about believing in myself?”
Faith looked confused.
“Why would I?”
“Every therapist I've met has.”
“Maybe you need someone who listens before making speeches.”
She started checking the wheelchair cushions.
I watched her.
“Have you always been like this?”
“Annoying?”
“Unimpressed.”
She smiled faintly.
“My mother was a nursing assistant. When she got sick, I helped care for her. After she died, I trained for the same work.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty.”
“And your father?”
“He raised Maya with me after her father left.”
I looked up.
“He left?”
“When Maya was two.”
“Does he see her?”
“Birthday cards stopped three years ago.”
Something hardened inside me.
I knew men who could move millions of dollars before breakfast.
Yet a man couldn't find enough decency to send his own daughter a birthday card.
Faith adjusted my footrest.
“Maya doesn't ask about him much anymore.”
“Does that make it easier?”
“No.”
Her answer stayed with me.
Then she looked at the untouched therapy bars.
“You know, Dominic, standing isn't the only way to get your life back.”
I turned toward the window.
“Easy to say when you've got working legs.”
Faith didn't argue.
She simply placed a folded towel beneath my ankle.
“You're right,” she said. “I don't know what that feels like.”
And for some reason, her honesty made me want to try harder than any motivational speech ever had.
At four thirty, the house telephone rang.
Mrs. Gable answered.
Moments later, she appeared at the therapy room door.
“Faith, your neighbor is calling.”
Faith took the phone.
I watched her expression change.
“What do you mean he changed the locks?”
Her face went white.
“Mrs. Flores, where's Maya?”
I moved closer.
Faith gripped the receiver.
“Please tell her I'm coming.”
She hung up.
“Our landlord locked us out.”
I stared at her.
“Today?”
“He said the lease was terminated.”
“But you have until Friday.”
“Apparently not anymore.”
She reached for her coat.
“Maya's standing outside with Mrs. Flores. All our things are still upstairs.”
The connection was obvious.
Adrian Vale controlled Harbor Property Management.
And less than three hours after I'd refused his agreement, Faith's daughter was locked out of her home.
“Carmine,” I said.
He appeared immediately.
“Take two men. Go with Faith. Get her daughter's things.”
Faith spun toward me.
“No.”
“Faith—”
“I don't want armed strangers frightening Maya.”
I stopped.
She was right.
I'd spent years solving problems by sending men with guns.
A frightened eight-year-old didn't need another demonstration of my power.
“Then take Mrs. Gable,” I said. “And a driver. No weapons on display. No threats.”
Faith looked at me uncertainly.
“Why are you helping?”
“Because somebody is using your daughter to punish me.”
Her eyes filled.
For once, she had no argument.
Maya Willis arrived at my mansion just before sunset.
She was small for eight, with dark curls, a pink backpack, and a stuffed rabbit missing one ear.
Faith held her hand as they entered.
Mrs. Gable carried two overnight bags.
Most of their belongings remained at the apartment because the landlord had refused access.
I waited in the entrance hall.
Maya stopped when she saw my wheelchair.
Then she looked at the large staircase behind me.
“Do you live here all by yourself?”
“Most of the time.”
She considered that.
“That's a lot of rooms.”
“It is.”
“Doesn't it get lonely?”
I looked at Faith.
She looked away.
“Sometimes,” I admitted.
Maya nodded, apparently satisfied.
Then she pointed at my wheelchair.
“Does it go fast?”
“Maya,” Faith whispered.
“What? I'm just asking.”
I smiled.
“Faster than you'd think.”
“Cool.”
That was it.
No pity.
No uncomfortable silence.
Just a child accepting the world exactly as she found it.
Mrs. Gable showed them to the guest suite.
Faith tried to refuse.
I told her the rooms were empty and that Maya deserved a proper bed.
Eventually, she agreed to stay for a few nights.
Not because she trusted me.
Because her daughter needed somewhere safe.
After dinner, Maya appeared in the library carrying a drawing pad.
Faith was helping Mrs. Gable upstairs.
“Mom says you like looking out windows,” Maya said.
“Sometimes.”
“Grandpa did too.”
She climbed onto the sofa.
“He used to draw trucks with me.”
I glanced at her notebook.
Most pages held ordinary pictures.
Houses.
Dogs.
A crooked rainbow.
Then I saw a red truck.
Its driver's door was white.
I felt my chest tighten.
“Who drew that?”
“Me.”
“When?”
“Before Grandpa died.”
I moved closer.
“Why did you draw it?”
Maya looked at the page.
“Grandpa said it was the weird truck.”
“What made it weird?”
“The door didn't match.”
I swallowed.
“Where did you see it?”
“At Grandpa's garage.”
“Did he say who drove it?”
She shook her head.
Then she pointed toward the top of the drawing.
There, above the truck, she'd written two numbers in uneven pencil.
2:17.
My blood went cold.
“Why did you write that?”
“Grandpa told me to remember it.”
“Did he say why?”
Maya hugged her rabbit.
“He said sometimes grown-ups pretend they don't remember things.”
I stared at the drawing.
My security chief had described the same truck.
Samuel's watch had stopped at the same time.
And now an eight-year-old child had preserved something the official investigation never mentioned.
I tried to keep my voice gentle.
“Maya, what else did Grandpa say?”
She looked toward the doorway.
Then she whispered:
“He said if I ever saw that red truck again, I had to hide.”
I felt the muscles in my shoulders tighten.
“Did you see it again?”
Maya nodded.
“Today.”
My heart seemed to stop.
“Where?”
May you like
She pointed toward the front windows of my mansion.
“It followed our car through the big iron gates.”
