Chapter 4 - The Brother’s Arrival
The emergency lights of a private ambulance flashed red and blue against the rain-slicked columns of the Devereaux portico as I slipped out through the side conservatory door into the freezing night.
I didn't have my coat, and the rain soaked through my blouse instantly, but the biting cold kept my mind razor-sharp. I ducked behind a row of manicured boxwood hedges near the circular driveway, clutching Camille’s burner phone and the amber pill bottle in my trembling hands.
Front-row seats to the kidnapping of Camille Holloway were about to be canceled.
Two orderlies in white coats wheeled a gurney out of the front entrance. Strapped securely to the mattress was Camille. Her eyes were glazed over, her head lolled heavily to one side, and her breathing was dangerously shallow—the unmistakable signature of Dr. Rowan’s chemical restraints.
Grant walked right beside the gurney, playing the role of the devoted, weeping husband for the benefit of the two police officers standing by their cruiser.
“Just take her straight to St. Jude’s Private Wing,” Grant instructed the lead orderly. “I’ll follow behind in my car to sign the intake paperwork.”
“Hold on a second, Mr. Holloway,” a harsh, unfamiliar voice rang out across the courtyard.
A black SUV tore through the security gates, its tires throwing up sheets of gravel and water as it slammed to a halt directly behind the ambulance, blocking its exit.
The driver’s side door flew open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy leather jacket stepped out into the rain. He moved with the terrifying, controlled grace of a predator who had just found blood in the water.
Julian Thorne.
Camille’s older brother—a man whose name the high-society columns of Boston whispered about with a mixture of awe and absolute dread. The newspapers called him a shipping magnate and real-estate investor. The people who knew how the city’s underworld actually operated used a different word entirely.
Grant’s face drained of all color. The polished billionaire mask shattered into a million pieces.
“Julian,” Grant stammered, stepping back toward the porch. “What—what are you doing here? I called your office an hour ago to explain that Camille had a medical emergency—”
Julian didn't answer him. He walked straight past the police officers, his dark eyes locked entirely on the gurney where his sister lay chemically paralyzed.
“Get away from her,” Julian commanded, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling baritone that made the two local cops instinctively take a half-step back.
“Julian, please, she’s unstable,” Grant protested, regaining a fraction of his arrogance. “She attacked the staff, she tried to harm the baby—Dr. Rowan authorized emergency psychiatric transport—”
Julian’s fist caught Grant square in the jaw with a sound like a cracking baseball bat.
Grant spun sideways, crashing hard against the brick pillar of the portico before collapsing into a heap of expensive cashmere and wet gravel, blood pouring freely from his split lip.
“Mr. Thorne! Stop right there! Hands where we can see them!” one of the police officers shouted, drawing his taser.
Julian didn't flinch. He raised his hands slowly, turning to face the officer, but his gaze remained as cold as frozen steel. He reached inside his jacket, not for a weapon, but for a heavy silver badge holder that he flashed directly in the officer's face.
The cop squinted at the badge, swallowed hard, and slowly lowered his weapon, taking a step backward without saying another word. Federal jurisdiction. State police oversight. Julian Thorne’s reach extended far beyond local town cops.
“You gave her something,” Julian said, walking slowly toward Dr. Rowan, who looked as if he wanted to dissolve into the pavement.
“Mr. Thorne, as the attending physician, I assure you— medical protocols—patient confidentiality—” Rowan stammered, backing away until his spine hit the ambulance doors.
“You drugged my sister in her own home to cover up the fact that her husband likes to use her ribs as a punching bag,” Julian snarled, grabbing Rowan by the lapels of his designer suit and lifting him an inch off the ground. “Where is she going?”
“St... St. Jude’s,” Rowan choked out.
“Not tonight she isn’t.” Julian threw the doctor aside like a discarded rag.
I stepped out from behind the boxwood hedge, drenched, shivering, but holding my ground in the center of the driveway.
“Mr. Thorne!” I called out.
Julian whipped his head around, his dark eyes fixing on me like twin rifle barrels. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Naomi,” I said, stepping into the headlights of his SUV. “I’m the housekeeper who called your sister’s phone before they locked me in the basement.”
Julian took two long strides toward me. “Did you see what happened?”
May you like
“I saw him slam her against the wall,” I said clearly, pointing a shaking finger at Grant, who was still groaning on the ground. “And I have the proof.”
I pulled Camille’s burner phone and the amber pill bottle out of my wet pocket and held them out in the open palm of my hand.
