Chapter 6 - The Hidden Stitch
Julian carried Clara through the dripping maintenance corridor beneath Eighth Avenue, the steady rumble of subway trains vibrating through the concrete floor. The air smelled of ozone, damp soil, and exhaust.
He reached an abandoned boiler room beneath a closed textile warehouse—a spot Marcus had designated over a secure text message. A single bare bulb hung from an exposed wire, casting harsh shadows across concrete pillars.
Julian set Clara down on a clean wool blanket he found inside Marcus’s supply cache. He knelt beside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Clara," Julian whispered gently, brushing wet strands of hair from her forehead. "Can you talk to Daddy now? Are you in pain?"
Clara looked down at the hem of her satin dress. Her fingers worked at the intricate lace border near her hip, picking at a thick, clumsy thread that didn't match the dressmaker's delicate stitching.
"She put it here," Clara said. Her voice was cracked, barely louder than the hum of the overhead bulb, but to Julian, it sounded like thunder.
It was the first sentence she had spoken in eight hours.
"Who put it there, baby? Victoria?"
Clara nodded slowly, her lower lip trembling. "Miss Victoria was angry with Grandpa. She took it from his big metal desk last night when he was shouting on the phone. She said... she said if I told you, she would lock me in the dark cellar where the water drips."
Julian felt a sick coldness wash over his chest. He reached into his pocket, took out his pocket knife, and carefully severed the thick black thread.
Between two layers of stiff tulle, nestled against the horsehair braid that gave the gown its volume, was a tiny, rectangular object wrapped in black electrical tape.
Julian sliced through the tape.
It was an industrial micro-SD card and a heavy, tarnished brass key engraved with a five-digit number: 88412.
Julian stared at the tiny card. Victoria hadn't shackled Clara merely because of a tantrum. Clara was a living mule. Victoria had hidden stolen material from her own father inside the child’s dress, using her as an unwitting courier during the high-security wedding where no one would search a five-year-old flower girl.
And then, when Clara had panicked and tried to run to Julian in the courtyard before the ceremony, Victoria had chained her to keep her from escaping with the leverage.
Julian’s phone vibrated against the concrete floor. It was an unknown number.
He answered and held it to his ear without speaking.
"Julian," Victoria’s voice was as cold and sharp as broken glass. "You broke my gate. You humiliated me in front of the entire eastern seaboard elite. But worst of all, you took what is mine."
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"She is my daughter, Victoria!"
"I don't give a damn about the girl, Julian! Check the hem of her dress. If you bring me that key and the drive within the hour, I will let you both leave the state. If you don't, my father’s men will find you first. And unlike me, my father doesn't believe in leaving survivors."
