Chapter 2
I wanted to carry her out immediately.
She begged me not to.
That was the first thing that told me how deep the damage went.
Freedom stood in the doorway.
And fear still held the key.
“If they hear you,” she whispered, “they’ll move me.”
“Move you where?”
Her eyes went flat.
“I don’t know. That is why I stopped screaming.”
The room behind her was not a bedroom.
It was a cell wearing the bones of one.
A narrow bed.
A cracked washbasin.
A stack of old newspapers.
A chair with one repaired leg.
Boards nailed over the window from the outside.
And on the plaster wall, hundreds of pencil marks.
Twenty rows.
Days grouped into weeks.
Weeks into years.
A life counted by scratches.
My throat tightened.
“How long have you been alone?”
“Completely?” she asked.
The way she asked it made my stomach turn.
“Claire.”
“When I was little, a housekeeper named Rosa brought food. She cried every time. Then one day she stopped coming.”
“What happened to her?”
“I heard Vivian say she had become unreliable.”
I knew what that meant in rich houses.
People did not disappear.
They were paid off, threatened, or buried under paperwork.
“What about Grant?”
Claire flinched.
“My cousin was twelve when they locked me in. At first, he cried outside the door. Then Vivian sent him away to school.”
“And now?”
“Now he brings supplies when Vivian tells him to.”
My fists curled.
“He knows you’re here.”
“They all know.”
A floorboard creaked outside.
Claire grabbed my wrist.
Her fingers were thin and cold.
“Do not speak.”
The hallway stayed silent.
Then footsteps moved away.
She released me slowly.
“I need to get you out,” I said.
“You don’t understand.”
“No. But I understand locked doors.”
She looked at me then.
Really looked.
“Who are you?”
“Ethan Hale.”
Her expression changed.
She knew the name.
Even locked away, she knew the world enough to know mine.
“Why are you here?”
“My helicopter had mechanical trouble. The pilot landed nearby. Vivian offered shelter.”
Claire gave a bitter laugh.
“Of course she did.”
“What does that mean?”
“She collects useful people.”
Before I could ask more, my phone vibrated.
No service.
Only one bar flickering.
Claire saw it.
“They block signals in the east wing.”
“Why?”
“Because once, when I was fourteen, I found an old phone in a storage box.”
I went still.
“Did you call someone?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“911.”
“What happened?”
She swallowed.
“Vivian answered the door before police reached the east wing. She told them a grieving child had made prank calls years ago and the system glitched.”
“And they believed her.”
“She donated to the police foundation the next week.”
I turned toward the door.
May you like
This was no longer rescue.
This was war.
