The phone rang at 3:00 AM. It was the specific ringtone for the London secure line.
William answered immediately. “Isabella?”
“He was in the house,” Isabella’s voice came through in a jagged sob.
William put it on speaker so Malcolm could hear. “Who? Did you see him?”
“I came home from the market,” Isabella stammered. “The door was unlocked. I ran to the nursery. The baby… he was sleeping. But on his pillow…” She choked back a scream. “There was a Polaroid photo of him. Sleeping. Taken from *inside* the crib.”
Malcolm grabbed the phone, his knuckles white. “Get out of there, Bella. Go to the safe house. Now.”
“I am,” she cried. “But Malcolm… the note on the back. It says, ‘He looks peaceful. Keep him that way.’”
The line went dead as she ran. Alistair was sending a message across the ocean: He didn’t need to hurt them to destroy them. He just needed to show them that he could touch the “next generation” whenever he pleased.