Chapter 40: The Dead Zone

I waited until Chloe left the room, counting the clicks of her heels on the hardwood floor until they faded into the murmurs downstairs.

Then I moved.

I slid off the bed, ignoring the sharp pull of my stitches. I didn't go for the door. I went for the closet.

It was a narrow space, filled with Mark's suits and my pre-pregnancy clothes, garments that felt like they belonged to a stranger now. But it was also the one place in the room where the angle of the ceiling dipped low, creating a shadow the smoke detector camera couldn't penetrate.

The Dead Zone.

I dragged the duvet off the bed, bundling it in my arms. I threw it onto the floor of the closet, creating a soft nest among the shoes.

I sat down, my back against the wall, hidden by a rack of winter coats.

This was my sanctuary. My war room.

I pulled Sarah's phone from my bra. It was still dead, but I had the cable from the baby monitor in my pocket. I plugged it into the outlet behind the shoe rack.

While it charged, I started to work.

My body was weak. Atrophied from weeks of bed rest and sedation. My legs felt like jelly, my arms heavy as lead. But I needed strength. If I was going to get out of here, if I was going to save my daughter, I needed to be able to run. To fight.

I started with leg lifts. Simple, painful movements. Up. Down. Up. Down.

My incision burned. I gritted my teeth, swallowing a scream.

*Pain is information,* I told myself. *Pain means I'm alive.*

I did ten reps. Then twenty. Sweat beaded on my forehead, cold and clammy.

I switched to squats, using the wall for support. My knees trembled. I almost collapsed on the third one, but I caught myself on a garment bag.

*Get up, Elara. Get up.*

I forced myself to stand. I held the position. Five seconds. Ten.

I looked at the phone. The Apple logo was glowing.

It booted up.

I typed in the passcode. *0614.*

The home screen appeared.

I didn't waste time. I went straight to the messages.

Most were mundane. Grocery lists. Appointment reminders. But as I scrolled back, the tone changed.

*Mark: We need to talk about the trust.*
*Sarah: I told you, it's for the baby. You can't touch it.*
*Mark: Elena needs the money, Sarah. It's life or death.*
*Sarah: I don't care about your ex-wife. Stay away from me.*

And then, a text from an unsaved number.

*Unsaved: He can't protect you forever. Accidents happen.*

I scrolled further. Photos of bruises. A cut brake line on her car. Documentation of a slow, meticulous terror campaign.

And then, the last message she ever sent.

To Mark.

*Sarah: I know what you're doing. I found the pills. I'm going to the police tomorrow.*

She never made it to tomorrow.

I looked at the date of the text. It was sent at 11:42 PM. The accident report said she died at 1:00 AM.

They didn't wait. They acted immediately.

I heard a noise outside the closet door. A soft, stealthy creak.

I froze.

I unplugged the phone, shoving it under the pile of blankets. I pulled my knees to my chest, making myself small, hiding behind the coats.

The bedroom door opened.

"Elara?"

It was Mark.

I held my breath.

He walked into the room. I could see his shoes through the gap in the louvered doors. Expensive Italian leather.

He walked to the bed. He paused.

"She's not in bed," he called out.

"Check the bathroom," Chloe's voice replied from the hallway.

He walked to the bathroom. Then back to the main room.

He stopped in front of the closet.

My heart hammered against my ribs. If he opened the door, if he saw the phone...

He reached for the handle.

*Buzz.*

His own phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.

"Yeah?" he answered, sounding distracted. "What? No, I'm looking for her now."

He paused, listening.

"The lawyer is here?"

He sighed, dropping his hand from the closet door.

"Fine. I'm coming down."

He turned and walked out of the room.

"She's probably hiding in the closet," he said to Chloe as he passed her in the hall. "Let her sulk. We have bigger problems."

The door closed. The lock clicked.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

*The lawyer.*

They were accelerating the timeline. The "transition" wasn't Friday. It was happening now.

I grabbed the phone from under the blankets. I had Sarah's evidence. But I needed more. I needed to send it to someone who would listen.

I opened the email app.

And then I saw it.

A draft. Written but never sent.

*To: [email protected]*

Mrs. Gable. Sarah had tried to email Mrs. Gable.

*Subject: The Truth about Elena.*

I opened the draft. It was empty. Just an attachment. A voice memo.

I didn't need to listen to it. I knew what it was.

I hit send.

*Sending...*

The progress bar moved. Slowly. Painfully slow.

And then, a notification popped up on the screen.

*Software Update Required. Install Now?*

I hit "Later."

But the screen froze. The phone was old. The operating system was obsolete.

It crashed.

The Apple logo reappeared. Rebooting.

I stared at the black screen, tears of frustration stinging my eyes.

"Come on," I whispered.

But as I waited, I heard a sound. A new sound.

Not from the phone. Not from the house.

From the closet wall behind me.

*Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.*

It was coming from inside the wall.

I pressed my ear to the plaster.

"Help..."

It was a whisper. Faint. But unmistakable.

It wasn't a ghost. It wasn't the wind.

It was Mrs. Gable.

And she was alive.