Chapter 2 - The Gap in the RecordsBy 8:00 A.M. the following morning, the coastal storm had cleared, leaving a crisp, brilliant autumn sunlight streaming through the arched windows of Calder Manor.
I sat in my ground-floor office, holding a fresh cup of dark coffee. Standing beside my desk was Dominic Shaw, my chief of security—a broad-shouldered, scarred man who had served as my second-in-command for fifteen years.
"Dominic," I spoke, my low baritone cutting through the quiet room.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Run a deep-level background check on Emma Reed's two-year employment gap," I ordered, sliding her paper dossier across the mahogany surface. "Don't just check local employment databases. I want her medical credentials, her family history, and every hospital record attached to her name in the state of Massachusetts."
Dominic frowned slightly, picking up the folder. "Boss, she's been here four days. Noah ate his breakfast this morning without a fight, and he let her stretch his legs for twenty minutes without screaming. Whatever she's doing, it's working."
"I saw what she did at three-seventeen this morning, Dominic," I said, looking out the window at the crashing Atlantic waves below the cliffs. "She didn't soothe him like a nurse. She soothed him like someone who has lived through a bomb blast."
Dominic went silent. His sharp eyes narrowed as he understood my concern. "You think she was placed here?"
"I think she knows trauma too well to be a random applicant," I replied deadpan. "Find out who she was before she walked through my gates."
Ten minutes later, I walked down the long, sunlit corridor toward the east wing's physical therapy suite.
Through the glass panel of the double doors, I saw Noah sitting in his lightweight carbon-fiber wheelchair. He wore a bright blue sweater, his hair brushed neat.
Emma stood three feet in front of him, holding a small wooden balance ball.
"Catch, Noah," Emma said casually, tossing the ball gently toward his lap.
Noah caught it with both hands, his small jaw set tight. "This is baby stuff."
"Is it?" Emma raised an eyebrow, stepping back two paces. "Then throw it back and hit my left hand."
Noah threw the ball. It hit her palm with a quiet thwack.
"Not bad," Emma commented, tossing it back. "Now hit my right elbow."
Noah caught it, a faint, tiny spark of focus flashing in his dark eyes—an expression I hadn't seen on his face since his mother was alive. He aimed, twisted his upper torso with sharp athletic coordination, and threw the ball straight at her right elbow.
"Ha!" Noah let out a tiny, breathless giggle. "Hit it!"
I froze outside the glass door.
My throat tightened so hard I couldn't swallow.
A giggle. My eight-year-old son had just giggled.
Emma caught the bouncing ball, offering a quiet, razor-sharp smile. "Lucky shot. Do it again."
She didn't praise him like a fragile invalid. She didn't shower him with patronizing pity. She treated him like an athlete training for a match.
I pushed open the therapy room doors, my heavy leather dress shoes clicking against the hardwood floorboards.
Noah’s giggles stopped instantly. His small posture stiffened slightly, his hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair as he looked at me.
Emma turned slowly, her hazel eyes calm, unbothered, and completely steady as she met my gaze.
"Mr. Calder," Emma acknowledged softly.
"Emma," I replied, stepping up beside the wheelchair, resting my broad hand gently over Noah's small shoulder. "Noah... how are you feeling today?"
"I hit her elbow, Dad," Noah reported quietly, his voice small, but holding a clear thread of pride. "Twice."
May you like
I looked down into my son's face, then looked up into Emma's eyes.
"Good job, buddy," I whispered, my voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Keep training."
Related Stories
