Sixteen-year-old Daniel felt his heart slam against his ribs as if it were trying to escape. Two worn duffel bags rested at his feet. He had traveled too far, for too long, to turn back now.
That gate was not just metal and stone. It was his final chance.
He had practiced the words over and over: “I need to speak to the owner of this house.” But when the intercom crackled to life and the night air closed in around him, his throat tightened.
The gate buzzed open. A woman in a navy uniform stepped out first. Her name tag read Margaret. Her eyes were observant, cautious but not cruel—eyes that had witnessed the private lives of wealthy families.
“Yes?” she asked gently. “Who are you here to see?”
Daniel straightened his shoulders. “I need to speak with the owner. It’s important.”
“What’s your name?”
“Daniel.”
“I’m Margaret. And why do you need to speak to Mr. Charles Whitmore?”
The name hit him like a drumbeat. He had memorized it. Along with the faint scar above the left eyebrow. The nervous habit of running a hand through dark hair. The preference for strong coffee late at night.