Serenity Hills

The gate rolled back with a low, mechanical hum, revealing a driveway that wound deeper into the woods. Elena kept the headlights off, navigating by the faint glow of the facility's perimeter lights in the distance. She drove slowly, the gravel crunching softly under the tires.

She reached the main building. It was a sprawling Victorian mansion, repurposed into a fortress. High walls, barred windows, and cameras sweeping every corner. The place looked more like a prison for the criminally insane than a care home for the wealthy.

She parked the Rover in the shadow of a large pine tree. She checked the burner phone again. No new messages.

She climbed out, grabbing the duffel bag. The gun felt heavy in her waistband, a constant reminder of the stakes.

She moved toward the front entrance. It was a massive oak door, flanked by security keypads.

She didn't have a code.

But the message had said, *I see you.*

She stepped into the pool of light from the security camera. She looked up.

The door clicked.

It swung open, revealing a dimly lit lobby. Marble floors, antique furniture, and a receptionist's desk that was empty.

Elena stepped inside. The air was cool and smelled of antiseptic and lavender—the same scent Victoria used in her sachets.

"Hello?" she whispered.

No answer.

She moved to the desk. There was a computer monitor, glowing softly. On the screen was a map of the facility. A single red dot blinked in a room on the fourth floor.

*Room 404.*

And next to the monitor, a visitor's log.

Elena opened it. The last entry was dated two days ago.

*Visitor: Arthur Pendelton.*
*Patient: Sebastian St. Clair.*

She scanned the list of names. Most were familiar—lawyers, doctors, trustees. But there was one name that stood out, written in a different hand.

*Visitor: Julian St. Clair.*
*Date: Every Tuesday for the last ten years.*

Julian had known. He had been coming here. Not to the cottage, but here.

Was the cottage just a holding cell? A temporary solution before the final disposal?

Elena looked back at the map. The red dot was still blinking. Someone was guiding her.

She walked to the elevators. They were locked down, requiring a key card.

But the stairwell door was propped open with a fire extinguisher.

She took the stairs, climbing two at a time. Her legs burned, but fear was a potent fuel.

Second floor. Third floor.

Fourth floor.

The hallway here was different. No carpet. No art on the walls. Just a long, sterile corridor lined with heavy steel doors. Each door had a small observation window and a slot for food trays.

It was a high-security wing.

She walked down the hall, checking the numbers. 401. 402. 403.

404.

The door was unlocked.

Elena pushed it open.

The room was small, white, and windowless. There was a bed bolted to the floor, a metal toilet, and a desk.

Sitting at the desk was a woman. She was wearing a nurse's uniform, but she wasn't working. She was smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the ventilation shaft.

She turned as Elena entered.

"You're late," she said.

It was the nurse from the nursing home. The one who had tried to stop Elena from searching Mrs. Gable's things.

"You?" Elena asked, confused.

"I work two jobs," the nurse said, stubbing out the cigarette. "State care doesn't pay the bills. Private security does."

"You sent the message?"

"I opened the gate," the nurse said. "And the door."

"Why?"

"Because Mrs. Gable told me the truth," the nurse said. "Before her mind went completely. She told me about the babies. About the starvation."

She stood up. She was tall, imposing.

"I don't like child abusers, Mrs. St. Clair. And I don't like fires."

She pointed to the wall behind the desk. There was a directory mounted there, a list of patients and their room assignments.

"You're looking for Sebastian," the nurse said. "He's not in this room. This is just the observation deck."

"Where is he?"

"He's in the special wing," the nurse said. "The one that doesn't exist on the blueprints. The one Arthur Pendelton pays extra to keep off the books."

She tapped the directory.

At the very bottom, separated from the rest of the list by a thick black line, was a single entry.

*The St. Clair Wing.*
The directory on the wall listed 'The St. Clair Wing.'