CHAPTER 3: THE SEVENTH YEAR
The heavy door of the SUV slammed shut with a metallic thud that echoed through the park.
Through the thick, one-way tinted glass, the window slowly rolled down just an inch. The triplet in the orange dress raised her hand, pressing her palm against the glass in a slow, silent goodbye. Her expression wasn't sad; it was a warning.
"Camilla! Camilla!" I screamed, breaking into a sprint toward the curb, completely ignoring the stares of the tourists around me.
But I was too late. The driver slammed on the gas. The armored beast roared to life, cutting through the traffic and disappearing into the concrete jungle of New York City within seconds.
I stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, my chest heaving, the taste of copper and cheap coffee bitter on my tongue. I wiped the stray drop of blood from my face, staring at my trembling hands.
Those girls were seven years old. Camilla had vanished exactly eight years ago.
Do the math.
I wasn't just a ghost from Camilla Montgomery’s past. I was looking at my own flesh and blood. She had hidden my daughters in a golden cage, surrounded by bodyguards and billions of dollars. But the broken compass always points to where it belongs.
May you like
They found me. Or maybe, Camilla wanted them to.
I looked down at the crushed coffee cup on the asphalt. The game was over. I didn't care how powerful the Montgomery family was. I was going to get my daughters back.
