Chapter 5 - The Woman in the Canvas Jacket
Dawn was still two hours away, but the heavy, oppressive darkness of the Nashville night was beginning to fray at the edges. I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I spent the remaining hours reviewing every second of historical footage Calvin managed to pull from the estate's perimeter cameras, tracing the movements of the homeless woman who had been feeding my children.
Her name wasn't a ghost anymore. Calvin’s facial recognition software, run through an off-grid database, had matched her identity within twenty minutes.
Sarah Jenkins.
Forty-two years old. Former pediatric nurse at Nashville General Hospital. Five years ago, her life had unraveled after a tragic medical malpractice lawsuit where she had tried to blow the whistle on a corrupt pharmaceutical trial funded by a shell corporation. She had been discredited, stripped of her license, her savings wiped out by legal fees, and eventually cast out onto the streets.
And two years ago, she had been hired as a private nurse by Hilda Dawson to assist with "maternal grief counseling" for our family during the immediate aftermath of Elena’s death.
According to the records, Hilda had fired Sarah within a week, claiming she was unstable and volatile. But Sarah hadn't left the property. She had simply retreated into the dense, overgrown woods surrounding the Old Hickory estate, living off the grid, watching the nursery window day in and day out, waiting for a chance to keep my daughters alive while the woman inside systematically tried to kill them.
I pulled on a heavy wool jacket, tucked a small, silenced 9mm pistol into my waistband—a weapon Miller didn't even know I owned—and stepped silently out of my study.
The hallways were pitch black. The air was cool and still. I moved with the practiced stealth of a predator, keeping my footsteps light against the polished hardwood.
I bypassed the main staircase, heading toward the servants' back exit that led directly into the overgrown gardens near the east wing. As I neared the perimeter fence where the dense tree line met our manicured lawn, a low rustling sound caught my attention.
I froze, pressing my back against the cold stone pillar of the veranda.
Ten yards away, half-hidden beneath the sprawling branches of a weeping willow, a small figure was kneeling over a canvas bag. It was Sarah Jenkins. She was carefully packing up her dented aluminum bowls and plastic containers, preparing to retreat deeper into the woods before the morning patrols began.
“Don't move,” I whispered, stepping out from the shadows, my hand resting casually near my waistband, though I made sure she could see my empty palms.
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Sarah didn't scream. She didn't bolt. She simply rose slowly to her feet, her weary, weather-beaten face illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the leaves. Her eyes were deep, lined with exhaustion, but remarkably steady.
“You’re Vance,” she said, her voice raspy like dry parchment. “Ethan Vance. Took you long enough to notice your house was a tomb.”
