Setting the Stage

Julian’s voice still rings in my ears, a desperate plea for a life I’m no longer sure I can save. But the time for running ended the moment I saw Leo in that car. Eleanor thinks she has pruned me, but she’s forgotten that a digital archivist knows how to find what’s been deleted.

I stand up, my joints stiff from the cold floor of the nursery. I don’t pack comfortable clothes or leave my belts behind as the Silver Pines intake email instructed. I grab my encrypted laptop, a physical security key, and the printed dossier from the library.

I look at Sam one last time. If I win, he grows up with a father who isn't a ghost. If I lose, I’ve already set the dead man’s switch to ensure he never has to be property again.

I leave the house through the back door, avoiding the smart-locks I haven't yet overwritten. The morning fog is thick, a grey shroud over the neighborhood. I drive a car I rented with cash two days ago, a nondescript sedan parked three blocks away.

I don’t head for the police station. I head for the Vance Foundation Gala venue—the Grand Plaza Hotel.

The ballroom is a hive of activity. Florists are unloading thousands of white lilies. Technicians are testing the sound system for tonight’s presentation of the 'Savior of the Year' award. I move through the chaos in my 'invisible domestic manager' persona, a clipboard in my hand and a headset around my neck. No one looks at my face. No one questions the woman who looks like she’s managing the details.

I find the media booth at the back of the room. It’s a public space, but shielded. I need the vantage point. I need the public Wi-Fi and the hotel’s massive projection screens.

I open my laptop and bridge the connection to the Grand Plaza’s network. My fingers fly, executing the first phase of the lockout script. I feel the surge of power, the clinical thrill of seeing Eleanor’s administrative rights begin to grey out on my monitor.

I pull up the hotel's private internal messaging system. I type in Eleanor’s direct mobile number.

*I’m in the ballroom, Eleanor. I have the raw data from the Switzerland server. You have ten minutes to meet me here before the lockout becomes permanent.*

I hit send.

The media booth is quiet, the hum of the servers a comforting white noise. Below me, the ballroom continues its transformation into a gilded monument to a lie. I look at the clock. 11:30 AM. The driver is likely pulling into my driveway right now, looking for a woman who isn't there.

I see her.

Eleanor enters the ballroom from the north entrance. She looks magnificent in a charcoal suit, her head held high, the queen inspecting her hive. She doesn't look like a murderer. She looks like the legacy itself.

I pick up the burner phone and send the final text.

'Come alone, Eleanor. Or I press send on the 1998 file.'