Page 36 of Lyon

Tonya—the woman we were escorting—watched us carefully.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you for saving us.”

“That’s why I’m here. Are the kids okay? Do they need a snack?”

Her expression hardened. “No. They eat only their designated meals. No snacks.”

That raised a flag. What parent doesn’t allow their kids a snack?

Stanley stepped in. “I’m here as backup, in case anyone tries to harm you or the kids.”

“That’s why I hired these men,” she said sharply. “I don’t need more protection.”

Her reaction was almost defensive—angry, even. Why would a police officer’s presence bother her? As the plane taxied, she sat stiffly, jaw tight, fingers gripping the armrest like she wanted to crush it.

Something was seriously off.

Once we were in the air, I made my way to Oliver in the cockpit. “Something isn’t right,” I muttered.

Oliver frowned. “Yeah. I’ll get George, the husband, on the line.”

I nodded. “Keep it quiet. I don’t want her overhearing.”

Returning to my seat, I kept my gaze on Tonya without making it obvious. The four-year-old was eerily obedient. No requests, no complaints—not even a glance toward her mother for reassurance. Even the baby was silent. Not normal. More like they were afraid to talk.

River’s phone buzzed. He read the text I sent him, his face blank. Then, casually, he offered, “Would you like something to drink? We’ll be landing in a couple of hours.”

“No, thank you,” Tonya said curtly.

“So, are you excited for the move?” I pressed.

She barely turned my way. “I have a headache. I’d rather not talk.”

That was odd. Yesterday, she had been chatty, excited about reuniting with her husband.

Her shift in behavior made my gut churn.

A few minutes later, she got up and went to the bathroom. I turned to the four-year-old and kept my voice low.

“Is she your mom?”

The little girl hesitated, then whispered, “No. That’s Sherry.”

A cold chill ran down my spine. “Where’s your mommy?”

“She’s locked in the basement.”

I pressed a finger to my lips, and she nodded, understanding the need for silence.

Keeping my expression neutral, I stood and approached River. Low enough that only he could hear, I said, “The little girl says her real mom is locked in a basement. This woman is Sherry.”

River’s jaw tensed. “I just talked to the husband. I described her. He said she sounded like their nanny, Sherry. She’s been with them since the oldest was born.”

“She’s the nanny?” My pulse quickened.

River’s expression darkened. “Yeah. He said she started getting…weird. Dyed her hair like Tonya’s. Wore green contacts. They noticed the kids acting terrified around her. They fired her—told her she wouldn’t be moving with them.”

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