Chapter 3

Back at the hotel, it was almost dawn.

I pushed open the suite door, and Lily was already awake. She was sitting on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, with only her eyes showing. Those eyes followed me from the doorway to the bedside, like a young animal still undecided whether to leave its den.

Are you hungry?

She shook her head.

I got some hot milk and toast and put them on the bedside table. She glanced at the toast, then at me, and reached for it. Her movement was quick, as if she was afraid someone would snatch it from her.

She took a bite. Then she looked up at me.

"Are you Dad?"

"yes."

"What is a father?"

This wasn't a case of her being coquettish. She genuinely didn't know.

"Dad is the one who will never let anyone bully you again."

She stared at me for a few seconds, then broke the toast in half and handed me one half.

I didn't take that half. I picked her up, blanket and all, and let her sit on my lap.

"Where did Mom go?"

Her voice was muffled under the covers, and she asked very softly, as if she had asked this question many times before, and each time she had never received an answer.

"Mom has been locked up by bad guys."

She looked up at me. Not crying. It was the kind of look a five-year-old shouldn't have, a look of scrutiny to see if the other person was lying.

"Are they in cahoots with the people who locked me out?"

"They're not in the same group, but they know each other."

She was silent for about ten seconds. Then she buried her face in the blanket.

Will Mom come back?

"Come back. Dad will go get her."

The blanket shifted slightly. She reached out her right hand and handed me the half-eaten toast again.

"Then eat. You'll need energy if you're full."

I took the toast and took a bite. Not because the toast was particularly delicious. It was because it was something she had saved from her own mouth.

At seven o'clock in the morning, I took Lily to the best private pediatric clinic in Brooklyn.

The doctor who saw Lily was an elderly man with gray hair. He frowned slightly when he had Lily stand on the scale. His frown deepened when he placed his stethoscope against Lily's back.

“His height and weight are both below the third percentile for a five-year-old. There are signs of an old fracture healing on his forearm, and the bruises on his ribs are fading. The injury occurred about one to two weeks ago.” He put away his stethoscope and lowered his voice. “Sir, I need to explain—as a doctor, I have an obligation to report such cases.”

“You can report it.” I lifted Lily off the examination table. “But let me tell you who to report it to first. Margaret Davis of the Department of Social Services, Brooklyn. The complaint about the DeLuca family has been sitting on her desk for two years.”

How did you know—

“Because someone was investigating last night.” I showed him a screenshot Hawke sent me on my phone. “The DeLuca family has been complained about seven times. Neighbors reported it, teachers from the school reported it. Each time it was closed due to ‘insufficient evidence.’ Guess who’s suppressing it.”

The old doctor remained silent.

“My name is Ethan Cross. I am her father.” I knelt down to put Lily’s shoes on. “Now please report according to procedure, and send me a copy of the medical report as well. Both copies.”

The old doctor nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

The therapist, a woman in her forties, was assigned by the clinic and spoke very softly. She didn't ask Lily any questions directly; instead, she placed a few plush animals on the carpet and sat quietly beside her, waiting.

Lily didn't move at first. Her gaze swept over the plush toys—a bear, a rabbit, a cat, and a dog—and then settled on a little lamb in the corner. The lamb's wool was old, and one of its ears had been sewn shut. Lily stared at that ear for a long time before reaching out to take it.

She placed the sheep on her lap and gently smoothed the curled wool off its body with her fingers. Her movements were slow and careful, as if she were caring for something smaller than herself.

The therapist didn't interrupt her. After about five minutes, Lily smoothed the sheep's wool, then looked up at me. That glance was as if she were confirming that I hadn't left.

I didn't leave. She continued.

She picked up the dog and placed it next to the sheep. The dog was big, and the sheep was small. She then adjusted the dog's position so that it was blocking the sheep's view.

The therapist asked her softly what the dog was doing. Lily said it chased the bad guys away. The therapist asked again, "And then what happened?" Lily put the sheep next to the dog, looked down at it for a long, long time, and then said something so softly it was as if she didn't want to wake someone: "Mommy, come back soon."

The therapist glanced at me. I didn't say anything, just clenched my fists. Not out of anger—but because this five-year-old child's entire world, built with crayons and plush toys, was waiting for the same answer.

After leaving the clinic, Lily fell asleep in my arms. I carried her back to the safe house and put her on the bed.

Hawke sent two people to guard downstairs, a former military doctor to handle dressing changes and nutritional monitoring. Lily would be going to the clinic daily for trauma intervention, and the old doctor had prescribed a full nutritional plan. I folded up the candid photo of Elena and put it in my breast pocket—I had no right to see her until my daughter was settled.

The next day at noon, I made the final arrangements at the safe house. Lily had finished a whole meal of nutritious food today, and the bruises on her wrists were starting to fade from bluish-purple to pale yellow. I had looked at the note Elena had left behind many times, but I took it out again to look at it. Live on. For Lily. Live on. Her "L" was drawn out, just like the one she wrote to me ten years ago in that letter to boot camp.

I folded the note and put it back in my breast pocket.

"Hawk".

"exist."

"Once Lily wakes up, take her for a check-up and treatment, and take good care of her. I'll be right back."

Yes! Is there anything else planned?

"I need the security deployment map of Kane Manor. The blind spots of the surveillance cameras, the changing of the guard times, and the basement entrance."

The sound of typing on the keyboard lasted for fifteen seconds.

Do we need external support?

“No need.” I stood up and shoved the gun into the holster on my waist. “I’m just going to take a look.”

Hawke didn't ask any more questions. He'd been with me for ten years and knew the weight the word "look" carried in my mouth.

It's 11 p.m. at Kane Manor.

In the affluent East Coast neighborhood, behind iron gates lay meticulously manicured lawns and brightly lit three-story French-style villas. I scaled the wall from the side, landing silently.

Blackwater Security Company's security team is indeed professional.

The patrol routes overlap and cover each other, with a surveillance camera every thirty meters.

But that was child's play to me. I found the fire escape at the back door of the kitchen, and the surveillance camera was half-hidden by the awning.

I walked through the kitchen and down to the basement level.

The wine cellar was filled with wooden crates, emitting a rotten stench.

Go down one more floor.

The iron door on the second basement level is equipped with an electronic combination lock.

I spent twenty seconds disassembling the panel and covering the contact points with the pre-flashed hacked chip from Hawker. The door lock clicked open.

Push the door open and go inside.

It's not a storage room.

It was a basement that had been converted into a prison cell.

A metal bunk bed. Syringes and medicine bottles piled in the corner. The walls were covered with photos of the same woman, in different years, with the same desperate look in her eyes.

A sticky note sat on the vanity, the handwriting messy but each stroke forceful enough to almost tear the paper: Survive. For Lily. Survive.

Elena's handwriting. I recognize it. She wrote me a letter ten years ago and sent it to boot camp.

The way she wrote those letters was her signature style—the “L”, she stretched the vertical stroke very long, like a crack.

I folded the note and put it in my breast pocket. Then I heard a noise behind me.

It was very light. It was the sound of bare feet stepping on a concrete floor.

I turned around.

A woman was hiding in the corner.

Wearing a silk robe, her hair loose over her shoulders, she was as thin as a skeleton.

Her eyes were sunken, her cheekbones prominent, but her eyes were dry and bright. There were no tears, no fear, only something left after being repeatedly crushed.

Elena.

She saw me. Her whole being seemed to freeze in place.

“I thought—” her voice seemed to be squeezed from the depths of her throat, “I thought you were dead. They said you were dead. Ten years. There was no news of you at all.”

"I'm sorry." I walked over; now was not the time to tell the truth.

“I waited outside for two years,” she continued, her voice growing increasingly fragmented. “Then Marcus found me. He said he could help me find you. He said he had connections. Then he threatened me with Lily’s life.”

Her fingers gripped the collar of her nightgown, her knuckles turning white.

“He said if I didn’t obey, he wouldn’t let Lily get away with it. If I called the police, Lily would be in immediate danger!”

Her voice finally began to tremble.

"You've suffered so much." I hugged Elena, who was sobbing uncontrollably.

I reached out my hand. Her hand was clenched into a fist, her nails digging into her palm, just like in the photo.

I took her hand and pried her fingers apart one by one. There were four bloody marks on her palm, new ones on top of the old ones.

“Lily is alright,” I said. “She’s safe.”

She paused for a moment.

Then her fist slammed into my chest. Anger, joy, and worry overwhelmed her, preventing her from thinking clearly.

I pulled her close, placing one hand on the back of her head. Her body was frighteningly light, the bones of her shoulders pressing against my chest. Her body temperature was very low, as if she had been in the basement for too long.

"How did you find me?" She buried her head in my chest, her voice muffled. "Marcus has been keeping me here for a long time. I begged him to pay Lily child support every month, or I would hang myself in front of him."

“I found out about Marcus through this account, and your love for your daughter also became a clue for me to find you.”

Elena cried her eyes out, afraid to let go of my hand, as if she was afraid I would disappear at any moment.

“Marcus has had enough of tormenting me, and he wants to auction me off.” Elena told me that there would be a “charity gala” the day after tomorrow, but the real purpose was to auction off Marcus’s “slave.”

I calmly pressed my hand against the holster at my waist.

She looked up at me, her eyes finally lighting up. "What are you going to do?"

"The auction is the night after tomorrow." I took the note out of my breast pocket and put it back in her hand.

"I will solve everyone's problems."

She stared at her own handwriting, her eyes darting around.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside the door. It was the changing of the guard.

"Come with me first! I'll take care of these guards!" I pulled her towards the door.

She shook her head and went back inside.

“If I disappear now, Marcus will become suspicious.”

During her ten years of imprisonment, she learned to calculate all possibilities. She calculated every step, and dared not make a mistake.

I suppressed my murderous intent and nodded.

"The day after tomorrow. The auction. I'll kill him there." I tucked the gun back into my waistband. "I'll definitely get you away from here."

She nodded. Then suddenly reached out and ran her finger across my face.

That scar. Below my right eyelid, about one and a half centimeters long. It wasn't there ten years ago.

"How did you do that?"

"Fragments. I didn't have time to dodge when the thunder struck."

She rubbed her thumb back and forth on the scar twice, then withdrew her hand and retreated into the shadows of the basement.

“You’re a doctor.” I took one last look at her in the darkness. “You should know this wound isn’t fatal.”

"I know."

Her voice came from the shadows.

That's why I feel at ease.

I turned around, walked through the second basement level corridor, and climbed over the wall.

The guards had just turned to patrol the other side and were completely unaware of my visit.

Back at the hotel, Hawke was waiting in the hallway.

“Lily has undergone a physical examination. She is in poor nutritional condition and mentally fragile. She is currently receiving treatment.”

"Great, how about the other information I requested?"

He handed me a folder. “List of dinner guests. Thirty-seven people in total, all philanthropists from New York, Philadelphia, and Boston.”

I opened the list and scanned it from top to bottom.

"Circle it."

"Circle what?"

"Everyone who does business with the Kane family."

Hawke pulled out a red pen and drew eleven circles on the list.

"What's wrong with these people?"

“None of them will escape.” I closed the list and handed it to him.