Chapter 6
The morning sun barely cut through the grimy panes of the kitchen window, casting long, dusty stripes across the linoleum floor where I sat cross-legged with Owen playing on a faded wool blanket. The baby was surprisingly calm, his tiny fingers reaching out to bat at a plastic measuring spoon I had handed him to keep him occupied. Across the small room, Gideon sat at the rickety wooden table, the data drive we had salvaged from the downtown archive plugged into an old, battered laptop I used for my community college coursework.
"The metadata on the birth logs confirms every suspicion," Gideon said, not looking up from the glowing screen. "The signature on your original emancipation and waiver forms from ten years ago was notarized by a legal clerk who hasn't practiced in the state since two thousand fourteen. Vance used dead credentials to push the adoption through the probate court while you were still unconscious in the recovery ward."
"They treated me like a broken machine," I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I watched Owen gnaw contentedly on the plastic spoon. "When you're twelve years old and poor in this city, people in crisp white coats don't see a person. They see a liability that needs to be filed away in a drawer where nobody will ever have to answer questions."
Before Gideon could reply, a sharp, distinct knock echoed from the heavy wooden apartment door on the landing outside.
We both froze. Gideon’s hand snapped instantly to his side, his posture shifting into defensive readiness, though he carried no weapon here. I scooped Owen up into my arms, pressing him tightly against my chest as the cold knot in my stomach tightened into a hard, suffocating stone.
"Clara?" a rasped, elderly voice called out from the hallway, followed by the sound of shuffling steps on the linoleum outside. "Clara, child, are you in there? It's Martha. Open the door before the landlord sees who's standing out here on the stairs."
I let out a slow, shuddering breath, recognizing the voice of the retired practical nurse who lived in apartment 3B and had occasionally helped me carry groceries up the three flights of stairs when my shifts at the banquet hall ran late. I looked across at Gideon, who gave a slow, cautious nod, stepping back into the shadows of the small hallway out of immediate view.
May you like
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches. Martha stood there in a heavy knitted cardigan, her silver hair pulled back into a messy bun, holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a crumpled copy of the morning newspaper in the other. Her weathered face was tight with anxiety.
"I saw the news broadcast from the grand ballroom last night," Martha whispered urgently, pushing her way past the door before I could stop her, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto the baby in my arms and then shifting to the towering man standing in the shadows of my kitchen. "And you better tell me right now, Clara, why half the city's private security firms are tearing apart the financial district looking for a man in a black suit and a baby born on November seventeenth."
