Behind me, Laura screamed. “Where is he? Evan, where’s our baby?!”
My hands shook as I opened the note.
If you want to see Oliver again, bring $150,000 in cash to Locker 42 at Bayfront Station. No police. No mistakes. Or you lose him forever.
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.
Laura collapsed, sobbing. “Please don’t call the police,” she begged. “What if they hurt him?”
Every instinct told me to dial 911. But fear drowned out logic.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll do it your way.”
Still, something felt wrong—not just the note, but Laura herself.
That was when everything started to unravel.
I withdrew as much cash as I could and drove to Bayfront Station alone. Laura said she was too sick, too shaken to come. I believed her.
Locker 42 sat in a dim corridor near the docks. I placed the bag inside, locked it, and waited across the street.
Less than ten minutes later, a man approached—mid-forties, baseball cap, worn jacket. He grabbed the bag and turned away.
I stopped him before he got far. “Where’s my son?” I demanded, shoving him back.
He panicked. “I don’t know what’s in that bag! I was paid to move it to another locker downtown. That’s all.”
His fear was real.