Chapter 2 - Shadow in the Glass|
When the elevator opened on the executive floor, Marlene Price looked at the stroller, closed her eyes, and let out a long, heavy breath.
"Oh, sweetheart," Marlene whispered, stepping out of the elevator's path.
"I had nobody, Marlene," Hannah said, her voice shaking as she pulled the cart out into the quiet carpeted hallway. "Mrs. Keller broke her wrist on the ice. I called everyone."
"Hannah—"
"I know," Hannah interrupted, her eyes pleading. "I know children aren't allowed on corporate floors. But if I get one more strike, I'm fired."
"You know this can get both of us fired if Mr. Whitmore's security detail spots her on the feed?" Marlene asked softly.
Hannah swallowed hard. "I'll be so fast. I'll clean the main office and be out before eight."
Marlene looked down at the stroller. Ellie poked her head out from beneath the blanket, offering a toothless, two-bottom-teeth smile. That made Marlene's stern expression crumble instantly.
"You keep her with you every single second," Marlene instructed, glancing toward the dome camera at the far end of the corridor. "No cleaning chemicals anywhere near her reach. No wandering. And if anybody asks, I didn't see a single thing tonight."
"Thank you, Marlene. I mean it."
"Don't thank me," Marlene said grimly, picking up her mop bucket. "Just finish before nine."
The executive suite smelled faintly of rich peppermint and polished mahogany. Whitmore Confections had been crafting artisan chocolates in Knoxville for almost a century. Even after manufacturing moved to a modern facility outside the city limits, the old headquarters still carried the scent of dark sugar and cocoa in its historic brick walls.
Hannah parked the squeaky stroller just inside the double doors of the grandest corner office. The brushed-metal nameplate beside the oak frame read: ETHAN WHITMORE, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER.
Across the dimly lit hallway, behind the frosted glass wall of an unlit conference room, Ethan Whitmore sat entirely alone in the dark.
He had been sitting there since 5:11 PM. His mother had called four times. Dinner is at seven, Ethan. Your sister flew in from Boston. Please don't do this again. He had let every call go straight to voicemail.
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For four Christmases, Ethan had avoided his family's home—the place where everyone remembered the small, laughing girl he refused to speak about. Work was his shelter. Financial ledgers did not ask why he had stopped decorating a tree. Contracts did not ask him to say his daughter's name.
He had been staring out the tinted glass at the snow falling over downtown Knoxville when he heard a baby laugh.
