Chapter 2
I landed in two hours.
The police were already there. Two cruisers. My security team. Brenda was on the front porch, screaming. Jake was beside her. Sophia was sitting on the steps, quiet, watching.
Emma wasn't outside.
I ran inside. I found her in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, still in her uniform, a piece of toast in front of her that she wasn't eating. When she saw me, her eyes went wide.
"Daddy?"
I dropped to my knees and pulled her into my arms. She was so light. Too light. Her bones felt sharp through her uniform. She trembled.
"I'm here, baby," I said. "Daddy's here. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
She cried into my shoulder. Big, heaving sobs. Like she'd been holding them in for months. Years.
The police came in. A social worker. A doctor — I'd called one too. They examined Emma. Malnourished. Bruises consistent with grabbing and hitting. Delayed schooling — she'd missed forty-seven days that year. Brenda had forged my signature on excuse notes.
And the closet. They photographed it. The sleeping bag. The pillow. The milk crate with Emma's few belongings — a hairbrush, a book, the stuffed rabbit, a school photo of her and her mother. Her mother — my first wife, Grace, who'd died when Emma was three. Emma had nothing of her left. Brenda had thrown it all away. Except that photo. Hidden in the milk crate.
I held that photo. My wife. My daughter. The family I'd had. And I cried.
Brenda was arrested. Child abuse. Neglect. Fraud — my accountant had already found it. Millions. Siphoned from my accounts over two years. Houses in her name. Cars. Jewelry. Money to her sister. Money to her first husband. She'd been stealing from me since the day we married.
She screamed as they led her to the car. "Alexander, you can't do this! I'm your wife! These are lies! Emma is lying!"
I didn't answer. I just held Emma.
Jake went to live with his father — Brenda's first husband. The man didn't want him, but the court ordered it. Sophia — she was nine. Her father was out of the picture. No one. She went into foster care. But before she left, she pulled on my sleeve.
"Mr. Alexander," she said. Her voice was small. Scared. "Can I — can I tell you something?"
I knelt down. "Of course, Sophia."
"She — Mom. She hit Emma. A lot. And she locked her in the basement sometimes. And she didn't feed her. I tried to give her food. But Mom found out once and — and she hit me too." She showed me her arm. A bruise. Fading. "I'm sorry I didn't tell. I was scared."
I looked at this little girl. Brenda's daughter. Scared. Bruised. As much a victim as Emma.
"It's okay, sweetheart," I said. "You were brave. You told me now. That's what matters."
I looked at my security chief. "Find her a good foster home. The best. And I'm paying for everything. Therapy. School. Whatever she needs."
He nodded.
Sophia hugged me. Quick. Then she was gone, with the social worker.
May you like
I stood in the hallway of my mansion. The marble floor. The closet. The bruises on my daughter's arms. And I thought — this was my house. My money. My name on everything. And I hadn't seen any of it. Because I'd been too busy making more money.
I'd failed my daughter. And I would never forgive myself.
