When the subsidies ended or the child became difficult… an ‘accident’ would happen to the child.
Mia’s insurance policy was worth two million dollars. It had become valid the day before.
A heavy, rhythmic knock on my door broke the silence.
Mia woke up with a cry.
‘Liam!’ shouted a voice outside the window. ‘Open up! It’s Dr Evans. Your father sent me to check on the girl.’
I went to the door and looked through the peephole.
Dr Evans was the family doctor. A man I had known all my life. But he wasn’t carrying a medical bag. He was carrying a syringe. And behind him stood two strangers. They wore heavy coats, but I could see the outlines of crowbars — or worse — beneath the fabric.
They hadn’t come to check on her. They had come to “liquidate the asset”.
“Get out,” I shouted. “She’s asleep.”
“Open the door, Liam,” said Dr Evans, his voice shedding its caring mask. ‘Or we’ll break it down. Your father wants this done today.”
I grabbed my coat. I grabbed my laptop.
‘Mia,’ I whispered, rushing to the sofa. ‘We have to go.’
‘Where?’ she cried, tears streaming down her face.
‘The fire escape.’
We rushed to the back window. The metal bars were frozen. I kicked them, once, twice. They creaked and gave way. The wind howled outside, a clear four-storey drop into a dark alley.
‘I can’t,’ Mia sobbed, looking down.
‘You have to,’ I said. Behind us, the front door cracked with a deafening crunch.
I climbed out first, reaching for her. ‘Jump to me, Mia. I’ll catch you. I’ll never let you go.’
She jumped.
I caught her, the impact so strong it almost knocked us both off the railing. We ran down the icy metal staircase, the wind hitting our faces. Above us, I could hear the men shouting and saw a beam of light cutting through the snow.
We fell to the floor of the alley and ran. We ran until our lungs were bursting. We ran until we found a 24-hour internet café — a place without cameras, filled with gamers who wouldn’t think twice about a man in a suit with a child in pyjamas.
I bought a private booth. I sat Mia down.
My phone flashed. A message from Chief Miller.
From: Chief Miller
Message: Your father just filed a kidnapping report. You are armed and dangerous. A shoot-to-kill order has been issued. Don’t make this messy, son. Just take her.
I stared at the screen. The police were hunting me. The ‘doctors’ were hunting me. I had nowhere to run.
I looked at Mia. She was holding my hand with both of hers, her eyes wide with trust.
‘Are we going to die?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. A cold calmness filled me. ‘We’re not going to die. We’re going to a party.’
Part 4: Bloody Christmas
I didn’t leave the estate. I went back to it.
It was the last thing they expected. They thought I was running for the border. They thought I was hiding in a motel. They didn’t think I would return straight to the lion’s den.
I parked the car in the woods, half a mile from the house. I left Mia in the car, hidden under blankets, with the doors locked and a burning phone in her hands.
‘If I’m not back in twenty minutes,’ I told her, ‘you press this button. It calls the FBI hotline. You tell them everything.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispered.
‘I have to end this, Mia. I have to shut down the monsters.’
I jumped through the forest. I knew the estate better than anyone. I knew the blind spot in the security cameras near the garage. I knew the code to the utility room.
I slipped into the garage. It was warm in here. I could hear the muffled sounds of the party upstairs—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses.
I found the main AV centre — the server that controlled the lights, sound, and huge projector in the ballroom.
I connected my laptop.
Upstairs, my father, Arthur Sterling, tapped a silver spoon against a crystal glass. The room fell silent.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, his voice rich and kind. ‘Thank you for joining us on this holy night. As we celebrate, let us remember those who are less fortunate.’
‘To the children!’ the crowd toasted.
In the garage, I pressed ENTER.
The ballroom plunged into darkness. The music stopped abruptly with a piercing sound.
‘What’s going on?’ Arthur exclaimed. ‘The lights! Someone turn on the lights!’
Then the huge screen behind him lit up.
It was not a Christmas message. It wasn’t a family photo.
It was a document.
DEATH CERTIFICATE – MIA STERLING – 25 DECEMBER 2024.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. ‘Is this… a joke?’ someone whispered.
Then the audio came on. My father’s voice, recorded from a phone call earlier that night, boomed through the speakers at full volume.
‘She’s a pathological liar, son. Dangerous. Just take her to the service entrance. We have doctors waiting to saddle her up.’
Arthur froze on stage. His face turned pale.
The image changed. It was a video. A nanny cam recording that I had recovered from the cloud.