Chapter 8 - In the Belly of the Beast
The interior of the Maybach was warm, smelling of rich leather and cedar.
Naomi sat in the plush leather rear seat, clutching Eli tightly to her chest, her body rigid as steel. Theo sat beside her, his wide, slate-gray eyes darting back and forth between the luxurious dashboard, the digital screens, and the towering man sitting across from them on the jump seat.
Preston had stripped off his wet coat, sitting only in his damp white shirt. He handed Naomi a thick cashmere blanket from the console.
"Wrap Eli in this," he said gently. "The climate control is set to seventy-five degrees."
Naomi hesitated, her eyes filled with bitter mistrust, but the sound of Eli’s ragged breathing broke her pride. She snatched the blanket and swaddled her sick son tightly.
"Who are you, mister?" Theo’s small, piping voice broke the heavy silence.
Theo was staring directly into Preston’s face. He tilted his head, his little brow furrowing in deep contemplation.
Preston felt his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. Looking at the boy up close, the resemblance was utterly undeniable. Every curve of the boy's cheek, the shape of his nose, the way his dark hair swirled at the crown—it was looking into a mirror that reached twenty-five years into his own past.
"Theo, don't speak," Naomi warned sharply, her voice trembling.
"He looks like the man in your box, Mama," Theo said innocently, pointing a small, damp finger at Preston. "The man with the torn picture."
Preston snapped his head toward Naomi.
Naomi looked away, her jaw tight, a deep flush of shame and anger rising up her neck.
"Drive to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital," Preston commanded the chauffeur through the partition. "Call Dr. Alvarez right now. Tell him the Hayes suite needs to be prepped immediately for an emergency pediatric admission."
"No!" Naomi flared up, her eyes flashing with defensive fury. "We don't need your charity, Preston! Take us to the public clinic on 4th Street!"
"He has a fever of at least a hundred and three, Naomi!" Preston shouted, unable to keep the desperation from cracking his voice. "He needs a pediatrician, antibiotics, and proper care, not a six-hour wait on a plastic chair in a flooded basement! For once in your life, let me do something for my son!"
The words hung in the warm air of the car like an explosive charge.
*My son.*
May you like
Naomi let out a sharp, ragged laugh that held no humor, only years of accumulated poison. "Your son? *Your son?* You don't have a son, Preston. You made sure of that five years ago."
***
