I hadn’t slept in two days.
The walls of the nanny’s home, once my childhood sanctuary, now felt like a prison of memory. Liana paced the sitting room, her phone gripped so tightly I feared she’d crush it in her fist. She hadn’t spoken much, only sharp commands to the shadows she called her contacts and nods to herself as information trickled in like droplets from a broken pipe.
George was gone. Taken.
The moment Liana told me Phil had him, my body collapsed into itself. My knees hit the tiled floor, and every bone in me screamed in silent protest. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Not yet. There wasn’t time for weakness.
“I found him,” Liana said finally, her voice low but fierce.
I jolted up. “Where?”
“An abandoned film studio in Burbank. One of Phil’s old shells from his music video d
