Chapter 7 - The Trojan Horse
Within two hours, a sleek black town car—driven by Arthur Sterling’s personal chauffeur, a man named Thomas who had worked for our family since I was in middle school—pulled up to the side entrance of the hospital.
I watched it from the second-floor window of the pediatric ward. Thomas stepped out, wearing his immaculate wool overcoat, scanning the entrance with practiced discretion. He didn't come inside; my father didn't want a public scene at a hospital where he might be recognized. He expected me to walk out meekly like a whipped dog and get into the back seat.
Instead, I executed phase two of Eleanor’s plan.
I had already arranged for a private medical transport ambulance to quietly transfer David from St. Jude’s to a secure, independent rehabilitation facility three counties over, under an alias funded by an emergency retainer from Eleanor’s firm. The transfer was completed at 11:00 AM sharp, while Thomas was still parking the town car.
As for Maisie and Ruby, they weren't staying in the hospital ward either. A trusted family friend—an old college roommate of mine who lived off-grid in the mountains—had arrived through the loading dock with a camper van to take the girls somewhere safe, warm, and entirely invisible to my father's radar.
That left me alone in Room 204.
I packed a small overnight bag—not with my actual clothes, but with an assortment of old college textbooks and a heavy winter coat. Then, I sat in the armchair by the window, waiting for my phone to ring.
It buzzed at exactly 12:15 PM.
"I'm outside, Clara," Thomas’s low, gravelly voice murmured through the speaker. "Mr. Sterling wants you home immediately."
"I'm coming down, Thomas," I said, letting a heavy, ragged sigh escape my lips.
I grabbed my bag, stepped out of the room, and walked down the back service stairs, bypassing the nursing station to avoid any awkward questions. When I pushed open the heavy glass exit doors into the biting winter wind, the black town car was idling by the curb, exhaust pluming white into the freezing air.
The rear door clicked open automatically from the inside.
I didn't hesitate. I climbed into the leather-scented interior, pulled the door shut behind me, and looked straight through the tinted partition at the back of Thomas’s head.
"To the estate, Ms. Clara?" Thomas asked without turning around.
"To the estate, Thomas," I replied evenly, my voice entirely devoid of the trembling hysteria I had used with my father.
Thomas paused for a fraction of a second—just a slight hesitation in the set of his broad shoulders—before putting the car in gear and pulling away from the curb. He didn't ask where the children were. He didn't ask about David. In my father’s household, employees learned very quickly that survival meant seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and asking zero questions.
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The drive took twenty-five minutes. As the familiar wrought-iron gates of my childhood home swung open automatically to welcome the town car, I looked out the window at the snow-covered lawns, the perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges, and the gleaming white front door with its freshly painted frame.
It looked like a sanctuary. But underneath the white paint, it was a tomb.
