Ch.25: The Message

His hand brushes the heavy velvet of the curtain.

I can smell him. The metallic tang of gun oil, the faint, sour note of old sweat. He is right there. Inches away.

My heart is a drum in my chest, a frantic beat that threatens to give me away. *Thump-thump. Thump-thump.*

The phone in my hand feels hot, radioactive.

*Don't breathe. Don't move.*

Aris grips the edge of the curtain.

"Is someone there?" he whispers.

He pulls.

The fabric moves. Light floods my hiding spot.

But he doesn't see me.

He sees the window.

The latch is undone. The window is open an inch.

I undid it before I rolled behind the curtain. A desperate, last-second gamble.

Aris stares at the gap. He pushes the window open. The night air rushes in, cold and damp.

He looks out into the darkness. He looks at the ivy trellis that runs down the side of the house.

"Greta," he hisses.

He thinks she came back. He thinks she climbed up.

He leans out the window, scanning the yard.

"Security!" he shouts into his wrist comms. "Check the perimeter! She might be on the roof!"

He slams the window shut. He locks it.

He turns and runs out of the hallway, heading for the stairs.

I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs for a year.

I am safe. For now.

But the message I sent wasn't enough. "Project Janus" sounds like a conspiracy theory. "Basement Lab" could be anything. Thorne needs proof. He needs something undeniable.

I look at the phone. **Battery: 8%**.

I open the camera app.

It’s dark behind the curtain, but there is a sliver of light coming from the streetlamp outside.

I hold up my left hand. The hand with the missing finger. The stump is wrapped in a bloody tourniquet, but the bone is visible. The cut is clean, surgical.

I snap a picture.

Then I turn the camera on my face.

I pull the bandages down. I expose the raw, healing meat. The missing eye. The nightmare that used to be a woman.

I snap a picture.

It’s blurry. It’s horrific. It’s perfect.

I attach the photos to a new message.

**FROM: ELENA VANE**
**TO: DETECTIVE THORNE**
**ATTACHMENT: 2 IMAGES**
**TEXT: It's not an accident. It's a harvest. He has my face.**

I hit send.

The bar crawls across the screen. Slower this time. The signal is weak behind the thick drapes.

*Come on. Come on.*

I hear footsteps again.

Not running this time. Walking. Slow, deliberate.

Aris is coming back. He realized the trellis wouldn't hold a person's weight. He realized the dirt trail didn't lead to the window; it stopped at the rug.

He’s smart. Too smart.

**SENDING... 50%**

The doorknob to the bedroom turns again.

Isabella.

She steps into the hallway. She is wearing a silk sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead. She looks groggy, confused.

"Aris?" she calls out. "Why is the window open?"

She walks toward me. She walks toward the curtain.

**SENDING... 80%**

She stops at the planter. She looks at the dirt on the floor.

"Who made this mess?" she complains. She kicks at the dirt with her slipper.

She looks at the trail. She follows it with her eyes.

Right to the curtain.

She frowns. She reaches out.

**SENT.**

The phone vibrates in my hand. A tiny, buzzing confirmation.

Isabella jumps. She heard it.

She rips the curtain back.

She screams.

It isn't a scream of terror. It’s a scream of recognition.

She stares down at me. At the skinless monster curled in a ball at her feet.

"You!" she shrieks.

She points a shaking finger at me.

"You're supposed to be dead! You're supposed to be a vegetable!"

She lunges. She grabs my hair—the hair that is matted with blood and sweat. She pulls.

"Die!" she screams. "Why won't you just die!"

I don't have the strength to fight her. My limbs are heavy, useless logs.

But I have the phone.

I swing my hand up. I smash the phone into her face.

It hits the graft. It hits the healing, fragile skin on her cheekbone.

*Crack.*

Isabella howls. She lets go of my hair and clutches her face.

"My face! You broke my face!"

Aris appears at the end of the hallway. He sees us. He sees his masterpiece bleeding. He sees his victim fighting back.

He raises his gun.

"Get away from her!" he roars.

He charges.

I can't run. I can't hide.

I look at the phone screen one last time.

**DELIVERED.**

I drop the phone. I let it slide across the floor, away from me, toward the laundry chute.

Aris reaches me. He kicks me in the ribs. I curl up, protecting my vital organs, accepting the blow.

He grabs me by the back of my hospital gown. He drags me out from behind the curtain.

He presses the gun barrel to my forehead.

"You are so much trouble," he whispers.

He cocks the hammer.

Then he stops.

He sniffs the air.

He smells something.

He looks down at me. He leans in close.

He smells the dirt on my skin. He smells the ozone from the fried server.

And he smells something else.

"Chlorine?" he mutters.

He looks at the phone lying by the chute.

He picks it up. He flips it open.

He reads the message. He sees the photos.

His face goes pale. Paler than Isabella's.

"You sent it," he whispers. "You sent it to the police."

He looks at the timestamp. **SENT 1 MINUTE AGO.**

He looks at the window.

Sirens.

Faint, distant, but getting louder.

"No," he breathes. "No, no, no."

He drops the gun. He grabs Isabella's hand.

"We have to go," he says. "Now."

"My face!" Isabella sobs. "She ruined it!"

"Forget the face!" Aris screams. "Pack the bags! The cells! The hard drives!"

He drags her toward the bedroom.

He leaves me lying on the floor.

I listen to the sirens. They are the most beautiful music I have ever heard.

Message Sent. Now the clock is ticking.