Chapter 168: Where Is My Son?
Anna’s POV
The detective’s face told me everything before he even opened his mouth.
Three days of searching, and the defeated slump of his shoulders spoke volumes. My fingers dug into the hospital blanket so hard my knuckles turned white.
"Ms. Shaw," he began, removing his hat, "we’ve found the man who stabbed Mr. Porter and took your son."
For one breathtaking moment, hope bloomed in my chest. "And Benedict?"
The detective’s eyes dropped to the floor. "The suspect was found dead in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. He’d been shot execution-style."
The air in the room suddenly felt too thin. My lungs strained against my ribs as I forced myself to breathe.
"And my son?" My voice sounded foreign to my own earshollow and distant.
There was no sign of the infant at the scene."
Each word hammered another nail into my composure. The killer’s death meant our strongest lead to finding Benedict had vanished. The person who could have confirmed George Simpson’s involvement was silenced forever.
"The timing suggests he was eliminated shortly after the kidnapping," the detective continued.
"Likely to cover tracks."
I nodded mechanically, processing the implications. Whoever was behind this -Doyle, George, or both—they were systematically erasing evidence.
"What about George Simpson?" I asked.
The detective’s jaw tightened. "He’s being released. Without the kidnapper’s testimony, we don’t have enough to hold him."
My chest constricted painfully. Id known this was coming, but hearing it confirmed felt like swallowing broken glass.
"So he gets away with it." Not a question, but a bitter acknowledgment.
"The investigation continues, Ms. Shaw. We found the car used in the kidnapping abandoned near the city limits. And with Doyle now on international watchlists..."
His words faded into background noise. International watchlists meant nothing. Every passing hour made Benedict’s recovery less likely. My newborn was out there somewhere-hungry, cold, frightened-and I was powerless to help him.
---
Logan’s hospital room was quieter than I expected. Oscar sat beside the bed, his hushed voice carrying just enough for me to catch fragments about "Simpson" and "disgrace" before he noticed me and abruptly fell silent.
"You should be resting," Oscar admonished, rising from his chair.
"Don’t you know your condition?"
I ignored his concern, my focus entirely on Logan. Bandages wrapped his torso, IV lines snaking from his arm. The price he’d paid for trying to save my son.
"I’ll give you two some privacy," Oscar mumbled, slipping past me with an awkward nod.
The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words. Logan’s eyes, though clouded with pain medication, still held that piercing quality that always made me feel transparent.
"Thank you," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You recognized Benedict was mine. That’s why you tried to stop them."
"You don’t need to thank me." His voice was rough from disuse. "If anything, I owe you."
I opened my mouth to object, but he continued, "I interfered because I care about everything that matters to you."
Something in his expression shifted, hardened. "But I don’t believe that child is Marcus’s."
My breath caught in my throat. Of all the things I’d expected him to say, this wasn’t one of them.
"Do you really want to be with someone like him?" Logan pressed, his eyes never leaving mine. "This time it’s your son. What about next time? Have you asked yourself why Marcus Murphy rarely comes home all these years?’
I nodded slowly, emotions churning beneath my carefully maintained composure. "You’re right about all of that. But feelings... I can’t control them."
He held my gaze for a long moment, as if trying to peer through my stubborn resolve. "You should rest.
Don’t force yourself to visit me."
"It’s not forcing." I sighed, guilt weighing heavily on my conscience. "I just don’t want to waste your time.
When I’m around your parents, I feel guilty about the time you spend on me."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "At least I’m finally not just a supporting character in your life."
I fell silent. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but I couldn’t find the energy to respond. My mind remained fixed on Benedict, my missing piece.
As I left Logan’s room, my phone buzzed with another update from Rachel. The car used in the
kidnapping had been found, stripped and abandoned. Another dead end.
Another thread of hope snipped away.
The winter sun cast long shadows across Skylake District as Clayton pulled up to the entrance of Shaw Estate. I stared at my family home through the car window, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where my heart should be. Seventy-two hours had passed since Benedict was taken.
Seventy-two hours of hell.
"We’re here, Ms. Shaw," Clayton announced quietly, his usual professional tone softened with concern.
I nodded mechanically and allowed him to help me from the car. My body felt simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy as I moved toward the front door. The physical pain from my C-section had dulled to a persistent throb, eclipsed by the searing agony of returning home with only one of my twins.
Inside, Betty had prepared everything for my return. The house was immaculate, warm, filled with fresh flowers perfect homecoming that felt like a cruel joke. My gaze landed on the two identical cribs visible through the nursery doorway. The sight made my lungs constrict until breathing became a conscious effort.
"Anna, drink some water." Mom appeared beside me, gently pressing a glass into my hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed, evidence of tears shed when she thought I couldn’t see.
"Thanks, Mom." My voice sounded distant to my own ears, and my fingers trembled slightly against the cool glass.
The soft shuffle of footsteps made me tense. Grandma Margaret entered, her face a careful mask that couldn’t quite hide the devastation beneath. My throat tightened painfully. She’d come to welcome her great-grandchildren home, only to find one missing.
I moved to her side, gently guiding her to the sofa. The time for protective lies had passed.
"Grandma," I said, clasping her weathered hands in mine, "Marcus is still alive." The words emerged clearer than anything I’d said in days. "He’ll bring Benedict home. I know he will."
Margaret’s eyes widened, disbelief and hope warring in her expression.
"Marcus... truly alive?"
I nodded firmly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. "Yes. He’s alive."
"Oh, thank God..." Mom and Margaret whispered in unison, the simple prayer hanging in the air between us like a fragile thread of hope.
In the days that followed, I forced myself to follow a strict recovery regimen. Each morning, a professional postnatal rehabilitation specialist arrived to help restore my body’s strength. I ate without tasting, slept without resting, mechanically following every instruction to expedite my healing.
"You’re making remarkable progress, Ms. Shaw," the specialist commented on her fifth visit, genuine surprise coloring her professional assessment.
*I have to be strong. For both my children.*
The most surreal aspect of this nightmare was how everything else continued functioning normally. Rachel reported that Shaw Corp’s stocks remained stable. Three more properties sold in Paradise Valley Estates. The world moved forward, indifferent to the fact that half of mine had been ripped away.
Each night, I sat with Sophia, watching her tiny chest rise and fall with each breath, marveling at how something so small could anchor me to sanity. Then I’d imagine Benedict somewhere unknown, perhaps crying for me, and the pain would start all over again, fresh and raw.
A week after returning home, I was back at my usual spot by the window when the door burst open. Rachel rushed in, clutching my phone, her normally composed face flushed with emotion.
"Boss," she gasped, her voice unsteady with excitement, "Marcus’s video call."