Chapter 4 - Shadows in Greenwich
Evelyn kept Noah hidden deep within the shadows of the estate wall as the fire sirens grew deafening. She knew that if they stepped onto that driveway, they wouldn't be saved—they would be silenced.
“We can’t go to the police here,” Evelyn whispered, kneeling by the laundry cart where Noah sat shivering in his soot-stained clothing. “Greenwich police know your grandfather by his first name. Half the station’s charity ball was funded by Whitmore Enterprises.”
Noah’s eyes were wide, reflecting the distant flames. “Where do we go?”
“To someone who loved your father as much as we do,” Evelyn said.
Ten years ago, before Daniel’s death, there had been an attorney named Marcus Vance. Vance had been Daniel’s personal counsel and closest friend from Yale Law—until Charles Whitmore had engineered a corporate scandal that got Vance ousted from his firm and disbarred in the state of New York. Vance now ran a small, quiet legal aid clinic in a working-class district of Bridgeport, twenty miles north.
Evelyn led Noah through a forgotten maintenance gate in the rear stone wall—a gate she used when taking out bulk waste, far away from the security cameras. They reached the dark backroad where her fifteen-year-old sedans was parked.
She lifted Noah into the passenger seat, buckled him in, threw the locked steel box onto the floorboards, and started the engine. As they pulled away from the estate, Evelyn looked in the rear-view mirror. The roof of the east wing caved in with a shower of brilliant sparks.
Twenty minutes later, the first news broadcasts were hits on the car radio:
“...a tragic disaster in Greenwich tonight. A catastrophic fire has destroyed the historic Whitmore Manor. Local officials report that billionaire Charles Whitmore and his wife survived, but authorities mourn the death of young Noah Whitmore, twelve, who reportedly perished in the east wing after heroic rescue efforts were thwarted by the rapid spread of flames...”
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Noah gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. “They’re telling everyone I’m dead.”
“Let them think it,” Evelyn said softly, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. “It’s the safest thing that could have happened to us tonight. If they think you’re dead, they won’t be looking for you. And while they’re preparing their grief statements for the press, we are going to build their scaffold.”
