Chapter 5 - The Knock on the Heavy Oak Doors
The snow was coming down heavier now, turning the streets of West Garfield Park into a swirling white maze of slush and abandoned vehicles.
Inside the basement of St. Jude’s Parish, Harper was trying to spoon a tiny bit of lukewarm water into Miles’s mouth when a sharp, authoritative sound echoed through the entire building.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It wasn't a casual tap. It was the heavy, commanding knock of someone who was used to doors opening the second their knuckles touched the wood.
Grandma June froze, her wooden stirring spoon clattering against the rim of the pot. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered, clutching her rosary beads around her neck. “At this hour? Who could that be? The police? The landlord?”
Harper’s heart leaped straight into her throat.
Could it be? Could it possibly be him?
Before June could hobble toward the stairs, Harper scrambled to her feet, running as fast as her worn-out sneakers could carry her up the concrete steps leading to the main chapel. The church above was dark, lit only by the flickering crimson glow of votive candles burning near the altar of the Virgin Mary.
She reached the massive oak front doors of the church. The brass latch rattled.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Open up,” a deep, resonant voice commanded from the other side. Even muffled by three inches of solid oak and howling wind, the voice was unmistakable.
It was him.
Harper’s fingers trembled as she slid the heavy iron deadbolt across. She pulled the massive door open just enough to peer out into the blinding snow.
Standing on the stone porch, framed by the swirling blizzard, was a tall man in an expensive dark wool overcoat. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair and the shoulders of his suit. His face was sharp, chiseled from granite and exhaustion, and his eyes—pale gray like winter ice—locked onto Harper instantly.
He didn't look like a savior from a fairy tale. He looked like a storm that had just broken through the atmosphere.
“You...” Harper breathed, her fingers gripping the edge of the heavy door.
Grant Calloway looked down at the tiny, shivering girl standing in the drafty doorway. He saw the oversized coat, the patched mittens, the red knit hat, and the huge, terrified green eyes that looked identical to the eyes of the woman he had held in a quiet room eighteen months ago.
“You’re Harper,” Grant said, his voice unusually rough, stripped of all corporate polish and authority.
“Yes,” Harper whispered, bracing herself for him to turn around and walk away.
May you like
Instead, Grant stepped past her, pushing the heavy church door wide open, letting the freezing Chicago wind whip into the sacred space. He didn't care about the cold. He didn't care about the snow ruining his Italian leather shoes.
“Take me to them,” Grant said quietly.
