Jerry ended the call just as the heavy oak doors of the study creaked open.
One of his imposing security guards stepped inside, flanking a small, fragile figure.
It was Jonah.
The street boy had been brought back from the park exactly as promised. He stood in the center of the opulent room, his dusty sandals sinking into the imported Persian rug. He looked around, not with awe at the wealth, but with a cautious, calculated weariness, like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield.
“Come sit down, Jonah,” Jerry said, his tone softening as he gestured to a plush leather armchair. “You are safe here. Nobody will hurt you.”
Jonah climbed into the massive chair, looking incredibly small but possessing a quiet strength that defied his age.
“The madam with the red hair is angry,” Jonah noted flatly. “I heard her shouting at the guards through the guest room door.”
“Let her shout,” Jerry said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Jonah, I need you to think very carefully about what you saw through that kitchen window. You said she took the powder from a silver locket. Was there anyone else with her? Did she ever speak to anyone while she was doing it?”
Jonah frowned, his young face scrunching in deep thought.
“She was usually alone when she mixed the soup. But there is a woman who visits. A woman with glasses and a white car. The doctor.”
Jerry’s blood ran cold.
Dr. Helen.
