Chapter 8 - The Chalet in the Snow
The heavy timber front door of the chalet swung open silently under Damian’s boot.
The interior was warm, smelling of burning birchwood, old leather, and vanilla candles. A grand stone fireplace dominated the main living room, casting dancing orange shadows across vaulted timber ceilings and Persian carpets.
"Hello?" a woman’s voice called out from the hallway near the back kitchen, speaking rapid French with a heavy Swiss-German accent. "Intervention? Is that the grocery delivery?"
A middle-aged woman in a wool cardigan stepped around the corner, stopping dead in her tracks as she saw Damian standing in the entryway with a drawn pistol, followed closely by me carrying Leah.
The woman’s face drained of color. She raised her hands slowly. "I am just the nanny. I don't know anything about the accounts—"
"Where is she?" Damian demanded, his voice low and razor-sharp.
"Upstairs," the nanny stammered, her eyes darting toward the winding staircase. "The second door on the left. Please... I have nothing to do with Viktor's business."
"Pack a bag," Damian told her without lowering his weapon. "You're catching a flight to Chicago with us."
I didn't wait for Damian to clear the stairs. I clutched Leah tighter against my shoulder and ran up the wooden steps, my boots pounding against the risers.
The second door on the left.
I pushed it open.
The room was smaller than the nursery in Evanston, painted a soft, pale yellow with white lace curtains framing the snowy peaks outside. In the center of the room sat a white wooden crib.
Inside the crib, wrapped in a pink flannel blanket, a little girl with dark curls and wide, terrified blue eyes sat upright, staring at the open door.
My breath stopped.
She looked identical to Leah. The exact same nose, the same tiny birthmark just behind her left ear—the birthmark the doctor in Zurich had pointed to two years ago before everything went dark.
"Oh, my God," I sobbed, the sound tearing out of my throat as I dropped to my knees beside the crib.
The little girl didn't cry. She reached her tiny hands through the wooden slats, her fingers curling into my hair just as Leah had done in the restaurant.
"Mama," a small, timid voice whispered from the doorway behind me.
I turned my head. Leah had slipped down from Damian's arms and waddled across the wooden floor, her little boots clacking softly until she reached the crib. She looked up at her twin sister, then reached out and patted her hand through the bars.
Two years of silence. Two years of stolen history.
And now, the room was filled with the sound of two little girls babbling softly to each other in a language only they understood.
May you like
Damian walked into the room, stopping behind me. He placed a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder, looking down at the two children with an expression of profound, unshakable peace.
"We found them," he whispered.
