Ch.30: Fugitive in the House

Darkness swallowed me as I scrambled deeper into the maintenance shaft. The metal was frigid, slick with condensation that smelled of ozone and stale air. I dragged my body forward on my elbows, the jagged rivets tearing at my forearms. Every inch was a battle against the leaden weight in my limbs—the sedative hadn't knocked me out, but it had turned my blood to sludge.

*Thump-thump. Thump-thump.*

The sound wasn't my heart. It was coming from the floor below.

I pressed my ear to the sheet metal. Low, rhythmic vibrating. Growling.

*Woof.*

The sound of a Doberman’s bark echoed through the vents, amplified by the hollow ductwork until it sounded like a monster in my ear. Thorne had released the search dogs. I could hear their claws clicking on the epoxy floors of the West Wing, their frantic sniffing at the very vent Leo had hoisted me through.

"Find her!" Thorne’s voice was a whip-crack of fury. "She hasn't left the perimeter! Check every crawlspace!"

I clawed forward, my breath hitching in my throat. I couldn't go back. I reached a vertical junction where the air turned warm and smelled of expensive perfume and old paper. The ductwork here was older, the screws rusted.

As I shifted my weight, a loud *groan* of metal gave way.

The floor of the duct didn't just bend. It buckled.

I flailed, my fingers finding no purchase on the smooth galvanized steel. The rivets popped like gunshots.

I fell.

I hit a plaster ceiling, crashed through it, and landed in a tangled heap of silk sheets and goose-down pillows. The impact knocked the remaining air from my lungs. I rolled off the high mattress, sliding onto a thick Persian rug, and scrambled blindly for cover.

I didn't have time to look around. I dove into the darkness beneath the bed frame, pulling a heavy, fringed bedspread down to mask my silhouette.

I lay flat, my cheek pressed against the floorboards. Through the gap, I saw the room. It was massive—the Master Suite. A fireplace crackled in the distance, casting dancing orange shadows across the mahogany furniture.

Then, the heavy double doors at the far end of the room swung open.

The clicking of heels and the heavy tread of dress shoes. My pulse spiked, a frantic drumming in my ears.

"Julian, you’re hurting my arm," Isabella whispered, her voice tight with pain.

"Silence," Thorne hissed. He sounded manic, the polished facade of the celebrity surgeon finally shattered. "The servers are compromised. The nanny is a mole. And you... you gave her the card, didn't you?"

They stopped right beside the bed. I could see Thorne's polished oxfords and the hem of Isabella’s blue gown just inches from my face.

I'm under the bed. And Thorne just walked in