Nathan Caldwell believed the story was over.
He was wrong.
Claire drove Marisol to a small extended-stay hotel off South Boulevard.
She paid in cash.
She used a name that wasn’t hers.
Marisol sat in the passenger seat, hands still pressed against her stomach.
“You’re safe now,” Claire said.
Marisol didn’t answer.
She just stared out the window at the passing lights.
Claire checked them into a room on the third floor.
Two beds.
A small kitchenette.
Nothing that connected to Nathan or Hawthorne Global.
She made Marisol a cup of tea from the tiny in-room kettle.
Marisol wrapped both hands around the mug.
She didn’t drink it.
“Tell me about Daniela,” Claire said.
Marisol flinched at the name.
“She worked for him before me.”
“For how long?”
“Eight months.”
“And then?”
“She got pregnant too.”
Claire’s stomach turned.
“What happened?”
“Nathan told her the same thing he told me.”
“Get rid of it?”
Marisol nodded.
“She refused.”
“And then?”
“She stopped coming to work.”
“Just like that?”
“Nathan said she went home to Guatemala.”
“Did you believe him?”
Marisol was quiet for a long moment.
“Her passport was still in the drawer.”
Claire felt her pulse in her throat.
“You saw it?”
“I clean that drawer every week.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Three months ago.”
“And now?”
“It’s gone.”
Claire sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.
