Chapter 126
Julian's POV
The bank. My mind latched onto the word, turning it over. Why would Evelyn need to go to the bank? She did everything electronically—I'd never once seen her handle physical cash or visit a branch in person.
"Of course, no trouble at all," Webb continued smoothly. "Can you describe the vehicle that's blocking you? Make, model, location in the garage?"
"It's a black Mercedes," Evelyn said, and I could hear her moving now, the echo of her footsteps in what sounded like a concrete space. The parking garage. "It's parked three spaces down from mine, sort of at an angle? I don't know if they just parked badly or if they didn't realize they were blocking me in, but I really need to get out. I have a time-sensitive situation and I can't be late."
Time-sensitive. Another flag. I grabbed a notepad from my desk and started writing: BANK. TIME-SENSITIVE. CAN'T BE LATE.
"I completely understand," Webb said, his eyes tracking my notes. "I will head over right away to move the vehicle. Should only take about twenty minutes given current traffic. Will that work for your timeline?"
There was a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate. "Twenty minutes should be fine. I have until tonight, but I'd really like to get started as soon as possible. The bank closes at five and I need to arrange a large transfer—" Her voice caught slightly. "It's complicated. Family emergency."
Every word was a piece of a puzzle, carefully chosen to sound innocuous while conveying something else entirely. I added to my notes: LARGE TRANSFER. FAMILY EMERGENCY. DEADLINE TONIGHT.
And suddenly, with the cold clarity of someone who'd spent fifteen years reading between the lines of hostage negotiations and ransom demands, I knew this was a kidnapping. Large transfer. Time-sensitive deadline. Family emergency. The pieces were there, but I needed to know who.
Evelyn had only been back in New York for a few weeks. Her circle was small, controlled. The Winthrop family. Isabella Russell. A handful of social acquaintances who wouldn't rate a "family emergency."
I grabbed my own phone, pulling up my contacts while Webb continued the careful dance with Evelyn. First priority: eliminate variables.
I dialed Isabella Russell's personal line. It rang four times before she answered, her voice cautious.
"Julian?"
"Quick question. Where are you right now?"
"I'm—what? Why are you—"
"Just answer the question, Isabella. Please."
A pause. "I'm at my parents' estate in Connecticut. I came up last night after—after everything. Why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just confirming something. You're safe?"
"Yes, I'm safe. Julian, what's going on?"
"I'll explain later." I hung up before she could ask more questions.
Not Isabella, then. Which left the Winthrop family. I pulled up the main number for Winthrop Industries, calling directly while Webb kept Evelyn on the line.
A receptionist answered on the second ring. "Winthrop Industries, how may I direct your call?"
"Julian Russell for Adrian Winthrop. We have a meeting scheduled this morning."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Russell, but Mr. Winthrop hasn't come in today. His assistant mentioned he called in this morning citing a personal matter. Would you like me to leave a message or transfer you to—"
"No, that's fine. Thank you." I ended the call, my jaw tightening.
He didn't go to work. Which meant he'd left Evelyn's building this morning—I checked my earlier text from Webb about the security footage—entered at 9:30 PM last night, no exit recorded on the cameras. That fifteen-minute gap when they rotated the lobby system, between 7:00 and 7:15.
And he'd never made it to his office.
The final piece clicked into place with the cold certainty of someone who'd seen this pattern too many times before.
"Adrian Winthrop has been kidnapped," I said quietly, meeting Webb's eyes across the conference table.
The engagement had been broken off this morning—that much I knew from the news alerts that had lit up my phone before dawn. Isabella Russell had released a statement about "mutual understanding" and "different paths," the kind of diplomatic language that barely concealed the truth underneath. Which meant Adrian was free. Available. Vulnerable.
And someone had grabbed him.
"Ms. Valentine," Webb said, his voice steady as a rock even as he caught my eye and saw the realization there. "Just to confirm—is this an urgent matter? Should I bring anyone else with him to help expedite things?"
Please say yes, I thought. Please give me permission to bring a full tactical team. Please let me help you.
"No, no, that's not necessary." But her voice had changed, softened into something that sounded almost like gratitude. Like she knew exactly what Webb was really asking. "I just need you to move your car so I can leave. That's all. Just... as soon as possible would be really appreciated."
"Understood. I'll be there within 20 minutes." Webb glanced at me for confirmation, and I nodded. "Is there anything else you need assistance with?"
Another pause. Longer this time. And when Evelyn spoke again, her voice was so quiet I almost missed it.
"Just want to let you know—" She stopped, and I could hear her breathing, could practically see her weighing what she could safely say. "I'm sorry. It's my fault. The car is parked fine—it's my driving skills that are the problem. I'm sorry to trouble you."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, parsing every word. My fault. My driving skills. She was taking responsibility, apologizing in a way that sounded mundane but carried weight. She was acknowledging me.
But it was that phrase—the car is parked fine—that made something in my chest tighten. The car wasn't the problem. The situation wasn't what it appeared on the surface. She was telling me to look deeper, to be careful, that there were layers here I hadn't seen yet.
"Adrian Winthrop," I said, looking up at Webb. "Someone's taken him. That's the family emergency. The large transfer is ransom. The deadline tonight is when they expect payment or they start hurting him."
Webb's expression went flat and professional, the way it always did when we shifted from speculation to operational planning. "How do you want to handle this?"