Chapter 3 - The Shattered Glass
I didn't lunge for the gun. Instead, I dropped flat onto the linoleum, rolling hard across the floor just as the deafening bang of the revolver shattered the heavy silence of the west wing.
A chunk of the oak dresser exploded into a cloud of splinters right where my head had been a second earlier. Martin let out a terrified cry and scrambled down the hallway, pulling himself away from the line of fire.
Before Evelyn could cock the hammer for a second shot, I kicked the heavy wicker bassinet upward, sending it sliding across the slick floor directly into her shins. She stumbled back with a sharp gasp, her expensive Italian leather heel catching on the edge of the rug. The gun slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the floorboards and skidding into the dark corner near the steel-barred window.
I didn't hesitate. I scooped up my son—who was now crying in frantic, piercing shrieks—and vaulted over Evelyn’s sprawling form.
“Martin!” I roared, sprinting down the hallway with the baby clutched tightly to my chest. “Get the keys to the Bentley! We’re going to the North Cliffs sanitarium!”
“Mr. Ethan, you can’t outrun her!” Martin cried out, hobbling out of a linen closet with a set of heavy brass keys in his trembling hands. “The local police, the judges, the medical board—they are all on your mother’s payroll! If you take that child out of this county, she will have you arrested for kidnapping!”
“Let her try,” I spat, throwing open the heavy mahogany front door and stepping out into the freezing Greenwich rain.
The storm had intensified into a blinding deluge, the wind howling off the Atlantic and whipping the massive oak trees surrounding Caldwell House into violent, thrashing silhouettes. My luxury sedan was parked in the circular drive, its headlights cutting through the sheets of gray rain.
As I strapped my son into the passenger seat, using my own jacket to keep him warm against the biting draft, the screech of tires echoed from the rear gates. Two black security SUVs pulled out from the service road, their high beams flashing blindingly as they blocked the main exit.
Evelyn appeared on the front porch wrapped in a dark fur coat, her silver hair blowing wildly in the wind. She wasn't holding a gun anymore, but she had a satellite phone pressed to her ear, shouting orders to the guards who were now running toward my car with flashlights and batons.
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“Ethan James Caldwell!” she screamed over the roar of the thunder. “You will never see a dime of this estate! You are finished!”
I slammed the car door shut, locked the manual levers, and threw the transmission into reverse, burning rubber across the pristine landscaping as I plowed right through the decorative flower beds to bypass the security blockade.
