The front door slammed shut downstairs, the sound echoing through the house. Arthur’s voice, sharp and commanding, filled the foyer.
“The side gate is unlatched!” he bellowed. “Double the security on all exits. Check the grounds.”
Trapped. I froze, pressing myself against the heavy velvet curtains in the study, my breath shallow. Arthur’s heavy footsteps approached, then paused just outside the door.
He walked in, the rich scent of his cigar and expensive cologne preceding him. He moved directly to the liquor cabinet, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He stood with his back to me, taking a long sip.
My eyes darted to the desk. In my haste, I had left the brown leather folder containing the paternity proof sitting there, just beside his humidor. My heart leaped into my throat.
Arthur turned, his gaze sweeping over the desk. He hadn’t seen it yet.
A soft click, barely audible, came from the kitchen pantry door across the hall. Arthur’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.
Just then, a small figure, quick as a shadow, slipped through the pantry door and into the study. Six-year-old Thomas.
He had followed me. He had stepped out of my car down the street, walked the dark block, and found his way in.
Thomas, his small face serious, walked directly to the desk. He grabbed the brown leather folder, his tiny fingers closing around it.
Arthur took a step forward, his eyes widening in surprise, but Thomas was already moving. He pivoted, a blur of motion, and ran back out the pantry door, a silent bolt of lightning.
He didn’t hesitate. He burst out into the pouring rain, running toward the street.
Arthur roared, lunging for the desk. “Get him!”
But Thomas was gone. I heard the faint squeal of tires on wet asphalt. He handed the file directly to Donald Salinger, who sat waiting in the idling press car, the engine already running.
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