Chapter 9 - THE GIRL IN MAINE
Renick did not shout.
Belle almost wished he had.
Instead, he became completely still.
“Start talking.”
Maeve lowered her weapon.
“Bianca contacted me three years ago.”
“You let me believe she betrayed me for five.”
“She was trying to stay alive.”
“So was I.”
“She had Isla.”
“She had my daughter.”
Maeve’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Camden, Maine.”
“Under what name?”
“Beth Arden.”
Renick laughed once.
It held no humor.
“Arden.”
“Close enough to Arlen that Isla could remember it.”
Belle listened.
This family had spent years burying names inside other names.
“What happened six months ago?” she asked.
Maeve looked at her gratefully, perhaps because Renick seemed ready to break something.
“Bianca called me. She said someone had found them.”
“Declan?” Renick asked.
“She didn’t know.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent two people.”
“Who?”
“Not Kavanaugh staff.”
Renick’s expression sharpened.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know who inside the organization was compromised.”
Belle understood.
“You didn’t trust Sully.”
“I didn’t trust anyone.”
“What happened to the people you sent?”
“One was killed.”
“And the other?”
“Missing.”
Renick’s face became grim.
“Bianca?”
Maeve looked down.
“Her car was found near Rockport.”
“Blood?”
“Yes.”
“Body?”
“No.”
“Isla?”
“No.”
Silence.
Belle felt the same terrible possibility that had haunted Owen’s story.
No body.
No certainty.
Only absence.
Renick turned away.
He stood at the apartment window.
Below them, Boston traffic continued.
People bought coffee.
Walked dogs.
Checked phones.
Nobody knew that inside a sealed third-floor apartment a man had just learned he had an eight-year-old daughter who had disappeared six months ago.
Belle looked at Maeve.
“Why tell him now?”
“Because somebody tried to kill Brinley today.”
“And?”
Maeve glanced toward the birth certificate.
“I thought the secret was protecting Isla.”
“You were wrong.”
“Yes.”
Renick turned.
“We’re going to Maine.”
Belle said, “You’re going.”
He looked at her.
“My son stays here.”
“With who?”
Belle hesitated.
Renick’s point was obvious.
Who did she trust?
Sully had lied.
Maeve had hidden a child for three years.
Declan might be trying to kill everyone.
Patrick was unaccounted for.
Callum Vale had not even entered the real story yet.
“I’m taking Micah somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere your family doesn’t know.”
Renick’s expression changed.
“You don’t have somewhere like that.”
It was insulting because it was true.
Belle’s world was small.
Work.
Micah’s school.
Their apartment.
A grocery store.
A laundromat.
Three friends she rarely saw because everyone worked too much.
Renick had maps of threats.
Belle had bus schedules.
Maeve spoke.
“Take the children with us.”
Belle stared.
“To Maine?”
“Renick has a coastal house near Kennebunk. Not under the Kavanaugh name.”
Renick said, “It’s secure.”
Belle laughed.
“Your definition of secure is losing credibility.”
He accepted the hit.
“We keep a small staff. None from Boston.”
Micah could not remain at the estate if someone inside was leaking information.
Belle hated every option.
Eventually, fear chose for her.
At dawn, two armored SUVs left Boston.
Belle sat with Micah and Brinley in the second vehicle.
Renick rode ahead.
Maeve stayed behind with Sully.
Micah slept against Belle’s shoulder.
Brinley slept against his.
Their heads touched.
Belle looked at them and wondered how children could create peace inside a vehicle designed to survive gunfire.
The coastal house was smaller than the estate.
Still enormous by Belle’s standards.
Cedar siding.
Gray roof.
Ocean beyond pine trees.
Renick gave Belle a room beside Micah’s.
She refused the master guest suite and chose the smallest.
He did not argue.
By noon, he had obtained Bianca’s old rental records.
A farmhouse outside Camden.
They drove north without the children.
Two guards remained behind.
Belle insisted on going.
Owen had helped Bianca.
Whatever they found might belong to both stories.
The farmhouse stood empty.
Peeling white paint.
Overgrown field.
Wind coming off the bay.
Renick unlocked the door with a key Maeve had provided.
Inside, the house had been cleared.
Too cleared.
No photographs.
No clothing.
No dishes.
Only furniture.
Belle walked upstairs.
One bedroom contained faded star stickers on the ceiling.
A child had lived there.
Renick stood in the doorway.
He touched one of the stickers.
Belle looked away.
“Isla slept here.”
“Yes.”
On the closet frame were pencil marks.
A growth chart.
ISLA — 5.
ISLA — 6.
ISLA — 7.
Renick placed his fingers beside the highest mark.
Belle saw his face.
He had missed every one.
A board creaked downstairs.
Renick’s guard called.
“Sir.”
They followed the sound to the kitchen.
Behind an old refrigerator was a hatch.
Basement.
Renick went first.
The room below was small.
Concrete walls.
One table.
A chair.
Maps pinned everywhere.
Boston.
Providence.
Portland.
New York.
And photographs.
Dozens.
Kavanaugh properties.
Declan.
Patrick.
Callum Vale.
Sully.
Renick.
Belle stepped closer.
Then stopped.
There were photographs of her too.
Belle pushing Micah’s stroller seven years ago.
Belle leaving a pediatric clinic.
Belle at Owen’s funeral.
Belle moving into the basement apartment.
Belle walking Micah to kindergarten.
Her hands began shaking.
Renick looked at her.
“She was watching you.”
“Bianca?”
“Probably.”
Belle approached the final board.
A picture of Owen.
Newer than the others.
Her heart stopped.
He stood outside a gas station.
Beard.
Longer hair.
Alive.
A timestamp had been printed beneath it.
MARCH 14, 2025.
Seventeen months ago.
Belle whispered his name.
“Owen.”
Renick stared at the date.
Belle touched the photograph.
Seven years of death vanished.
Her husband had been alive.
Maybe still was.
May you like
On the back, someone had written:
HE FOUND ISLA FIRST.
