Chapter 6 - SHADOWS BEYOND THE GLASS
Grace did not answer immediately.
Her pale-blue eyes drifted away from the sugar house, away from Clare, and turned slowly toward the grand, arched windows of Willow & Finch.
Outside, the bright Chicago afternoon had taken on a sharper, colder edge. The sun was dipping behind the stone facades of the brownstones across the avenue, casting long, angular shadows across the sidewalk.
Standing on the corner, perfectly framed by the brass muntins of the glass, was Marcus.
Harrison’s security chief stood with his hands clasped in front of his charcoal coat, his sunglasses pushed up onto his shaved head, his sharp eyes flicking across the passing luxury sedans and pedestrians. Beside him, two junior guards stood near the entrance, their broad shoulders and tailored coats broadcasting an unmistakable aura of lethal deterrence.
Grace stared at the men outside the glass. Her small fingers reached back toward the sugar house, her thumbnail gently tapping against the raw sugar packet that formed the rear wall.
“Daddy’s men have guns,” Grace said quietly, her voice matter-of-fact, lacking any fear. “They stand by the gates. They have black cars.”
Harrison’s breath caught in his throat. He leaned down, placing his large, tattooed hand on the leather banquette beside her, close enough for her to feel his warmth, but not touching her, giving her room to breathe.
“They’re there to keep you safe, Grace,” Harrison whispered, his baritone rough with a thousand unexpressed apologies. “Nobody is ever going to hurt you. I swear to you on my life.”
Grace turned her head slowly. She looked at her father.
For the first time in two years, her pale-blue eyes looked directly into his dark, tormented gaze. There was no defiance in her face, no childish anger. There was only the heartbreaking, solemn maturity of a little girl who had carried a mountain of adult secrets in her small chest while the world called her broken.
She reached into the pocket of her pale-blue dress.
Her small hand emerged, closed into a tight, trembling fist.
She held her fist over the marble table, between the untouched grilled cheese and the sugar-packet house.
“Can I tell you something about the day Mommy died?” Grace asked.
The words fell into the quiet of the restaurant with the concussive weight of a depth charge.
Harrison went completely, utterly still.
The blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice. His dark wavy hair, his tailored suit, his vast fortune, his fleets of ships—none of it existed. The world narrowed to the small, closed fist of his six-year-old child hovering over a restaurant tablecloth.
Clare Donovan slowly turned her head toward Harrison. Her breath was held, her hazel eyes wide, realizing that she was witnessing the tearing away of a two-year-old veil. She saw the raw, terrifying agony etched into the lines of Harrison Cole’s face—a man realizing that his daughter’s silence had not been an absence of thought, but a desperate, terrified vault.
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“Yes, Grace,” Harrison choked out, his voice cracking, stripped of all power, reduced to nothing more than a father begging for the truth. “You can tell me anything. Daddy is listening. I’m right here.”
Grace slowly opened her fingers.
