Jonathan Hale, a name that carried authority in Washington’s most exclusive legal circles, paced inside his private jet, convinced it wasn’t moving fast enough.
He had cut his Dubai trip short by more than a day after a sudden wave of dread—something powerful men often mistake for indigestion—hit him hard.
His sons. Noah and Caleb.
They were his entire world, and also his deepest wound. Both boys had been diagnosed at birth with severe cerebral palsy, leaving them confined to advanced motorized wheelchairs.
That was why Jonathan spared nothing. The glass-and-marble mansion outside Alexandria, Virginia was a fortress. And Isabella, their nanny, was the highest-paid caregiver in the state. Three flawless years of service.
He’d asked his driver to drop him at the service entrance. He wanted to surprise the boys, to see their faces light up when they least expected him.
He swiped his security card. The steel door opened silently.
The house was unnervingly quiet. No television. No hum of medical equipment.
“Isabella?” Jonathan called softly, dropping his briefcase.
No answer.
He crossed the living room, his footsteps echoing on cold marble—and then he saw it.
Both wheelchairs lay tipped on their sides near the bookshelf.
Empty.
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