Chapter 3 - The Search Begins
Two days later, against Dr. Kaplan’s furious objections, I discharged myself.
My private car was waiting outside the hospital entrance, but I didn't go back to my penthouse on Central Park West. Instead, I summoned Marcus Bianchi, my head of security—a former federal agent whose face looked like it had been carved out of granite and who could track down almost anyone on earth within twenty-four hours.
We sat in the back of the tinted Maybach parked three blocks away from Fifty-Third and Lexington.
“Find her, Marcus,” I ordered, sliding a flash drive across the console. “This has all the security footage pulled from the nearby bank cameras and the municipal traffic feeds. Look for a little girl, roughly six years old, wearing a faded yellow dress and carrying a brown pharmacy bag.”
Marcus took the drive, his expression deadpan. “Boss, Manhattan has millions of children. A yellow dress is common—"
“She bought something from a pharmacy right before she reached me,” I interrupted, pointing at the screen of my tablet where a magnified still frame showed the logo on the bag. St. Jude’s Apothecary. “There are only three branches of that independent pharmacy chain in midtown. Check their credit card and cash transaction logs for the hour before my collapse. Look for someone buying pediatric fever medication or inhalers.”
Marcus blinked, genuine surprise flickering in his dark eyes. He hadn't expected me to have already done the legwork. “Understood. Give me twelve hours.”
It took him ten.
That night, while the city lights flickered against the rain-slicked windows of my office, Marcus placed a single manila folder on my desk.
“You were right,” Marcus said quietly. “The pharmacy logs showed a cash transaction for pediatric amoxicillin and saline drops twenty minutes before the 911 call. The camera footage outside the store captured her clearly. Her name is Lily Vance. Six years old.”
I opened the folder. Inside was a photograph printed from a school enrollment record.
My breath caught in my throat.
The girl in the photo had bright blonde curls, a small dusting of freckles across her nose, and deep, startlingly pale amber-green eyes.
My eyes.
I had spent decades looking into mirrors and seeing those exact, rare amber-green irises—a genetic trait passed down from my mother’s side of the family, so distinct that people across three generations had commented on them.
May you like
“Where does she live?” I asked, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
Marcus hesitated, sliding a second paper across the desk—an address slip. “Queens. A run-down apartment building off Jackson Avenue. But Boss... there's something else you need to know about the mother.”
