Page 71 of Captive Promise
My socked foot skids on the marble a few strides in and I nearly go down completely, arms pinwheeling, one hand slapping the wall hard enough to sting. “Shit —” I hiss, catching myself against the wall, chest heaving.
I look down at the running shoes still dangling uselessly from my fingers and shove my feet into them right there in the hallway, not bothering to untie them first, jamming my heels down into the backs while I hop on one foot and then the other. “Stupid fucking shoes—come on —”
Then I’m sprinting down the hall, past the dining room, past closed doors, toward the back of the house where the sound keeps coming.
It’s closer now and unmistakably a child’s laugh.
It can’t be her.
That thought runs on loop underneath the panic.
I’ve explored this house repeatedly the entire time I’ve been here, just in case I ever needed a hiding spot or figured out a way to escape.
There has never been a child here.
There has never been so much as a single toy, a single small shoe, one shred of evidence that anyone younger than me had ever set foot on this property.
Nico had made sure I knew this. That Seraphina and I would never be in the same house, let alone the same room, until the thirty days were up.
Seraphina was his leverage to ensure I stayed in my lane.
He threatened that if I didn’t do exactly what he wanted, he would make sure Leo and Emma never saw their daughter again…
So this can’t be her.
It can’t be.
There’s no way this can be Seraphina.
But I follow the sound anyway, heart in my throat, because some reckless, hoping part of me needs to see for myself that it isn’t.
It leads me to a room I have never seen before, off a hallway I didn’t even know existed. I pause in disbelief, trying to calm my gasps and my galloping heart rate. What the hell? I thought I explored every inch of this goddamn place…
I stop dead in the doorway because someone has turned this room into a nursery overnight.
Soft mats cover the floor.
There’s a low shelf stacked with books and toys and a window seat piled with cushions in yellow and green. A white and pink playhouse sits in the corner of the room along with numerous baby dolls and other stuffed animals.
In the middle of all of it, surrounded by the entire upended contents of a wicker toy basket, is Seraphina Santoro.
She is real. She is right here, in the flesh, throwing plastic blocks over her shoulder with both hands and shouting, at the top of her lungs, “Yay mess!”
A woman I’ve never seen before sits on a small chair a few feet from the chaos, watching Seraphina with an indulgent smile on her face. She has the calm, unbothered patience of somebody who has clearly done this before, many times, for many children. She’s older, maybe in her sixties, with white-streaked dark hair pulled back in a low bun, reading glasses pushed up on top of her head like she’d been doing something before Seraphina demanded her full attention.
She’s dressed plainly but comfortably— a cardigan, soft-soled shoes, and loose pants. The uniform of someone whose whole job is getting down on the floor with small children. There’s a warmth in her face that doesn’t match anything else I’ve encountered in this house. This is genuine warmth, not paid-to-be-nice warmth, the kind you only get from someone who has spent a career loving other people’s children like her own.
She glances up at me and gives a small nod, like she already knows exactly who I am and isn’t the least bit surprised I found my way here.
I don’t move, but then again, I don’t think I would be able to even if I could. I just stand in the doorway, looking at this child I have thought about every single day since I found out she was missing, this child I agreed to disappear into a stranger’s house for.
My eyes fill with tears again and I take in a sharp inhale, my body nearly trembling as I drink her in.
She’s beautiful and pictures of her don’t do her justice.
She looks just like her father with wild dark curls, unruly in every direction and dark, deep-set eyes.
This child looks like Leonardo Santoro with a wig on.
