Chapter 6 - The Red-Ink Warning
We returned to the Gold Coast penthouse just as the Chicago sky began to bruise with the purple-gray clouds of an approaching winter storm.
The nanny had prepared a light dinner for the triplets in the sprawling kitchen, and while Roman fed Luca a spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes with surprising, awkward gentleness, I sat at the marble island sorting through the stack of documents Donovan had recovered.
My phone buzzed against the marble.
It wasn't a call. It was a text message from an unknown number containing a single photo attachment.
I tapped the screen.
The image showed a plain white envelope resting on the welcome mat outside the door of my empty studio apartment on Taylor Street.
Someone went to my apartment, I gasped, looking up at Roman.
"Open it," Roman ordered, stepping away from the high chair and walking over to my side, his shoulder brushing mine.
I zoomed in on the photo. Through the high-resolution lens, I could clearly see what was inside the open envelope: a neonatal transfer log from St. Catherine’s Medical Center, dated June 18, detailing the exact minute—5:06 A.M.—when three live infants were discharged from the neonatal intensive care unit and loaded directly into a private black transport van registered to an LLC owned by Alessandra Voss.
The authorization signature at the bottom bore Dr. Malcolm Mercer’s neat, clinical handwriting, countersigned by Alessandra Voss herself.
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And scrawled across the top of the document in thick, furious red ink were four words:
SHE KNEW THEY LIVED.
