Chapter 2 - What Was Hidden in Bunny
Vincent carried Lily straight inside through the side entrance, away from the courtyard and away from the men he had just knocked to the ground. He did not stop until he reached the quiet sitting room off the kitchen—the one room in the house Lily had always liked because it smelled like cinnamon and old books instead of Marcus’s leather jackets and cigarette smoke.
He sat down with her on the couch and eased her back just enough to see her face.
Her cheeks were blotchy with tears. Her pigtails were half-undone. Her little pink dress was dusty from the cage floor. But the thing that made something savage rise in Vincent’s chest again was how tightly she still held that stuffed rabbit—as if it were the only thing standing between her and another locked door.
“What did your mommy tell you, sweetheart?” he asked, keeping his voice low and steady.
Lily swallowed. “She said if Marcus got scary… if he ever locked me anywhere… I had to give Bunny to you and only you.”
Vincent took the toy carefully. It looked ordinary at first—worn fur, one bent ear, a slightly crooked seam along the back. But then he noticed the stitching there was newer than the rest. Not factory stitching. Hand stitching. Quick, hidden, deliberate.
“Did your mommy sew this?” he asked.
Lily nodded. “At night. She was crying.”
That was enough.
Vincent went to the drawer by the fireplace, took out a small pocketknife, and opened the seam with the tip as carefully as a surgeon. A little bit of cotton stuffing spilled out. Then something metallic dropped into his palm.
A tiny brass key.
And folded around it, a narrow strip of paper.
His pulse kicked hard as he unfolded the note.
Dad—if Lily gives you Bunny, don’t trust Marcus. Start with the fertilizer. Hurry.
It was Naomi’s handwriting.
Not old. Not uncertain. Not written by a woman who had run away from her child, the way Marcus had claimed three weeks ago.
Written by a woman who had been planning for disaster.
Vincent was still staring at the note when he heard boots on the tile just outside the room. He turned sharply.
Marcus stood in the doorway, pale and still unsteady, one hand braced against the frame. His chest rose and fell hard from where the helmet had hit him. But his eyes were fixed only on the rabbit in Vincent’s hand.
And when Marcus saw the key, he smiled.
May you like
It was not a confident smile.
It was the smile of a man who had just realized he was too late.
