Chapter 132
[Rose's POV]
Jennifer stood at the foot of my hospital bed with the kind of composure that came from years of managing corporate crises, but I caught the slight tightness around her eyes—the tell that whatever she'd come to report wasn't going to be simple.
"Rose." She acknowledged James with a brief nod before turning her full attention to me. "I'm glad you're recovering. But we need to discuss what I've found."
James's hand tightened on mine. I felt Alexander shift in the chair by the window, suddenly alert.
"Go ahead," I said quietly.
Jennifer opened the tablet she'd been carrying and pulled up a series of images. Security footage, by the look of it—grainy timestamps in the corner, the distinctive fish-eye distortion of surveillance cameras. She turned the screen toward us.
"This is from The Anchor, the bar where you and Alexander went that night." Her finger tapped the screen, enlarging a section of the image. "That's you and your friends at the main table."
I studied the frozen frame. There we were—Alexander with his arm slung over Mike's shoulders, both of them laughing at something. Me with a half-smile, clearly trying to relax into the celebration despite my reservations about the whole outing.
"And this," Jennifer said, swiping to the next image, "is from the same night. 9:52 PM. Corner booth near the bar."
My breath caught.
Rachel sat alone in a shadowy booth, a cocktail in front of her, her face partially obscured by the dim lighting. But it was unmistakably her—the same designer jacket she'd worn to the competition finale, the same elaborate updo she favored for public appearances.
"According to the footage, she arrived approximately twenty minutes before your group and stayed for forty-five minutes." Jennifer's tone remained neutral, professional, but I heard the undercurrent of concern. "The camera angles don't give us a clear view of whether she interacted with anyone specifically, but—"
"But she was there." I kept my voice level, though my mind was already racing through possibilities, calculating probabilities. "In the same bar. The same night."
James's jaw tightened. "It could be coincidence."
"Could be," I agreed, though I didn't believe it for a second. Rachel had no reason to be at The Anchor—it wasn't her scene, wasn't the kind of place she'd be caught dead in normally. Too dive-bar, not enough Instagram-worthy ambiance. "What else?"
Jennifer swiped through several more images before stopping on a document. "The three suspects in custody—Lucas, Oliver, and Zoey. Police did background checks as part of the investigation."
"And?"
"All three had been living in a low-income apartment complex about four blocks from your father's house. They moved there three months ago. Different units, but same building." Jennifer looked up from the tablet, her expression grim. "That's a long time to be in position before acting. Long enough to establish patterns, track movements, identify opportunities."
The hospital room seemed to shrink. I became acutely aware of every sound—the soft beep of the heart monitor, the distant murmur of voices in the hallway, Alexander's sharp intake of breath.
"They were watching her," Alexander said, his voice rough with barely suppressed fury. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.
"It appears so." Jennifer's gaze shifted to me. "The kind of surveillance and planning we're seeing here—it's not consistent with a random kidnapping or opportunistic crime. This was targeted. Professional."
I felt James's thumb stroke across my knuckles, a small gesture of comfort that he probably wasn't even conscious of making. My throat felt tight, but I forced the words out past the constriction.
"Show me the apartment complex."
Jennifer pulled up a map, then street view images. Generic low-rise buildings, the kind that dotted Boston's less affluent neighborhoods. Chain-link fences, cracked parking lots, laundry hanging from narrow balconies.
Four blocks from William's house. Close enough to watch. Far enough not to be noticed.
"I need you to keep investigating," I said, the words coming out measured and deliberate despite the turmoil churning beneath. "Not just Rachel. I want a full workup on everyone in the Evans family—William, Sarah, Daniel. Financial records, phone logs, travel history, everything. I want to know where each of them was during those three months, who they talked to, what they spent money on."
The silence that followed was profound. Even the heart monitor seemed to beep more quietly.
"Rose." James's voice held a note of something I couldn't quite identify—pride? Sorrow? Both? "That's your family."
"Exactly." I met his gaze steadily. "Which is why I need to be certain."
Jennifer nodded once, crisp and efficient. "I'll get the team on it immediately. We'll be discreet."
"Discretion isn't the priority. Accuracy is." I shifted slightly, felt the pull of bandages and the sharp reminder of rope burns. "And I want it done quickly."
"Understood." Jennifer made a note on her tablet. "Is there anything else you need right now?"
I thought about that for a moment. About Rachel sitting in that bar, about three strangers living four blocks from my father's house for three months.
"Find out if any of the Evans family made unusual financial transactions in the past six months," I said. "Large withdrawals, wire transfers, anything that doesn't fit their normal patterns."
Alexander made a sound that might have been approval or might have been dark amusement. Jennifer simply nodded and tucked the tablet under her arm.
"I'll have preliminary reports by tomorrow morning." She paused at the door, her professional mask slipping just slightly. "Rose, I'm glad you're safe. Whatever's behind this, we'll find it."
After she left, the room felt oppressively quiet. James still held my hand, his grip steady and warm. Alexander had moved to the window, staring out at the parking lot below with rigid shoulders.
"You really think Rachel was involved?" he asked without turning around.
"I think she was there." I chose my words carefully, aware of the fine line between suspicion and accusation. "Whether she was involved or simply present remains to be seen. But the timing is too convenient to ignore."
"She hates you." Alexander's voice was flat, factual. "Everyone knows that. But this—kidnapping?" He turned to face us, and his expression was troubled. "That's not just jealousy. That's something else."
"Money," I said quietly. "Or power. Or both. People have done worse for less."
James's thumb had resumed that gentle stroking motion across my knuckles. When I glanced at him, I found him watching me with an expression I recognized from old photographs. Sharp. Calculating. Protective.
"If someone in the Evans family orchestrated this," he said, his voice carrying the kind of cold authority that had built a business empire, "they're going to wish they hadn't."
"We don't know that yet." But even as I said it, I felt the weight of probability settling over me like a lead blanket. Rachel at the bar. Three criminals living near William's house. The professional planning, the targeted nature of it all.
Someone had wanted this to happen.
Someone had wanted me taken.
"Rose." Alexander had moved closer, his earlier rage settling into something harder and more focused. "When Jennifer gets those reports—what then?"
I met his gaze steadily. "Then we'll know who we're dealing with. And we'll act accordingly."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. James's hand tightened on mine, and I saw something flicker across his face—concern, certainly, but also a grim sort of determination. He'd spent decades building Sullivan Group, protecting his family, navigating the shark-infested waters of high-stakes business. He understood what "act accordingly" meant.
Alexander just nodded, his jaw set.
"You should both get some rest," I said, though exhaustion was already tugging at my consciousness. "It's been a long night."
"You're one to talk," Alexander muttered, but there was no heat in it. He moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, Rose—I'm glad you're okay. And whoever did this, whoever was behind it, they're going to regret it."
After he left, James and I sat in silence for a long moment. The morning sun had strengthened, filling the room with pale gold light that did nothing to warm the cold knot of certainty forming in my chest.
"Jimmy," I said quietly. "I have a bad feeling about this."
He looked at me, really looked, and I saw my own unease reflected in his eyes. "What kind of feeling?"
"The kind that says this is bigger than we think. That the kidnapping was just the opening move." I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to orchestrate this. Three months of surveillance. Professional criminals. That's not amateur work."
"No," he agreed softly. "It's not."
"And if Rachel was there that night, if she was somehow involved—" I couldn't quite finish the thought.
James's free hand moved to his pocket watch, that familiar gesture of seeking comfort in something solid and real. "Whatever this is, whoever's behind it, we'll face it together. You're not alone in this."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to take comfort in the certainty in his voice, in the steady warmth of his hand on mine. But as I lay there in that hospital bed, bandaged and bruised and barely twenty-four hours removed from a concrete floor and a gun to my head, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were standing on the edge of something dark and deep.
Something that, once we looked into it, would change everything.
"Get some sleep," James said gently, as if sensing the direction of my thoughts. "We'll have answers tomorrow. For now, just rest."
I nodded, let my eyes drift closed, though sleep felt impossibly far away.