"Don't move. Follow me." The boy's voice was barely louder than a whisper, but something in it made Richard Callaway stop in the middle of his own driveway. He had been walking toward the silver town car waiting at the gate, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other. His mind was already three hours ahead in a boardroom across the city. Now he was standing perfectly still on the polished stone path, looking down at a small boy in a faded blue shirt who had appeared from behind the rose hedges like he had been waiting there for hours.
"What did you say?" Richard asked. He recognized the boy, or at least he thought he did. The housekeeper's son, maybe 10 years old. He had seen him a few times helping his mother carry laundry baskets across the back lawn, but he could not remember ever speaking to him directly. "Don't move." The boy repeated, even quieter this time. "Please, sir, follow me. Don't let the man at the gate see you." Richard glanced toward the gate.
His driver was standing beside the town car, holding the rear door open, looking down at his phone. Nothing seemed wrong. Nothing seemed out of place. The morning was bright. The sky was clean. The engine of the car was humming softly the way it always did when his driver had been waiting for more than 2 minutes. "Son, I'm late for a meeting," Richard said, trying to keep his voice patient. "Whatever this is, can we talk about it tonight?"
The boy did not let go of his sleeve. His fingers were small, but his grip was firm, and his eyes were not the eyes of a child playing a game. They were the eyes of someone who had not slept the night before. "If you go to that car," the boy whispered, "you won't come back. I heard them say it last night in the kitchen. Please, sir." Richard felt something cold pass through him, but he pushed it away.