He sprinted up the stairs, two at a time, his polished dress shoes hammering against the oak treads until he burst into the master suite.
The bed was empty.
His eyes fell upon the five items resting on the white duvet.
The platinum ring. The corporate badge. The keys. The sonogram of his dead child. The watch.
Advertisement
Marcus picked up the handwritten note, his hand beginning to shake with an erratic, spastic tremor as the words burned into his retinas.
He lunged for the nightstand, snatching her phone.
Black screen. Factory reset. Dead.
“COLLINS!” Marcus roared, his voice cracking into a jagged, furious scream that echoed through the three-story atrium:
“COLLINS! GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”
Arthur Collins, the former Secret Service detail commander who headed the twenty-four-hour estate security detachment, ran into the bedroom within forty seconds, his face pale, his tablet already active in his hand.
Advertisement
