Chapter 48: The Vent

I stared at the circular screen of the smart hub, my breath hitching as the phone in my hand chimed with a low, triumphant vibration. The charging lightning bolt flickered in the corner of the screen, but more importantly, the signal bars at the top began to pulse.

One bar. Two.

The hardwired line was feeding the phone, bypassing the invisible curtain of the jammer. I was no longer a ghost in a glass cage. I was a signal reaching out into the dark, a digital distress flare.

I didn't waste time on a 911 call that might be traced and silenced by the house's own security protocol. I opened the messaging app and sent a single, high-resolution photo of the forged birth certificate and the cremation order to the burner email Brenda had given me.

*Subject: HELP. Oakwood Drive.*
*Body: They are going to kill me. Elena Rostova is Chloe. Sarah is dead. Check the basement safe.*

*Sending...*

The progress bar was a jagged line of hope, inching across the cracked screen. I leaned my forehead against the wall, the cool plaster grounding the lightning-strike of my panic.

*80%... 90%...*

A shadow fell across the bottom of the bedroom door.

I yanked the cable from the hub and shoved the phone into the waistband of my leggings, the metal bracket I’d used as a screwdriver clattering softly against the carpet. I scrambled back toward the bed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The door handle turned. The broken lock groaned but held for a split second before the heavy wood gave way.

Mark stood on the threshold. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the fine, pale hair on his forearms and a smudge of something dark and wet on his cuff.

"What was that noise?" he asked. His voice was flat, the warmth of the man I had married entirely evaporated.

"The pipes," I lied, my voice cracking. "The house... it sounds like it’s breaking."

Mark walked into the room, his eyes scanning the floor. He stopped in front of the smart hub. I saw his jaw tighten as he noticed the casing was slightly askew, a single multicolored wire peeking out from the bottom edge.

He didn't scream. He didn't move toward me. He just reached out and smoothed the casing back into place with a slow, deliberate thumb.

"Elena is right about you," he said softly, still facing the wall. "You’re a hunter. You just don't know when to stop digging."

He turned to face me. In his hand, he was holding the blue folder, the edges now curled from the humidity of his grip.

"The car is coming at five," he said. "We're taking you to the private clinic. They’ll keep you comfortable while we... finalize the arrangements."

"Finalize?" I gasped. "You mean the cremation?"

Mark flinched at the word, a flicker of humanity struggling to surface before the weight of his debt to Elena pulled it back under.

"We need a clean slate, Elara. Sarah understood that at the end. She was at peace."

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He looked back at me, a strange, hollow pity in his eyes.

"Try to sleep. It’ll be easier if you’re tired."

He left, the latch clicking into place with a finality that made the air in the room feel even thinner.

I didn't cry. I didn't have time. I crawled to the floor vent, the metal grate cold against my palms. I needed to know if they were moving Lily. I needed to know if my message had been received.

I gripped the edge of the vent cover. It was secured with four heavy screws, the paint sealing them in like cement. I jammed the metal bracket into the first slot.

I twisted until my knuckles bled, the sharp edge of the bracket digging into my skin. The screw gave way with a high-pitched *screeech*.

One. Two. Three.

I lifted the grate. The opening was a dark, square throat leading into the subfloor. I lowered my head, pressing my ear to the cold metal of the ducting.

The kitchen was directly below.

Mark's voice drifted up, muffled by the distance but clear in the silence of the vents.

"The papers are ready. Friday is the day."