Chapter 30: The Decoder

The flame didn't catch slowly. It roared. The gasoline fumes ignited with a concussive *whoosh* that sucked the oxygen from the room, creating a wall of heat between them and Vane.

"Jump!" Elena screamed.

She grabbed Beatrice’s collar and threw them both backward, through the open bay doors and into the black, freezing water of the lake.

The shock of the cold was violent. Elena surfaced, gasping, dragging Beatrice up with her. Above them, the boathouse was already an inferno, the dry timber turning into a pyre against the night sky.

They didn't look back. Elena kicked hard, towing Beatrice toward the reeds on the far bank, away from the dock, away from Vane’s flashlight beam sweeping the water.

They crawled onto the mud a mile downstream, shivering uncontrollably, their clothes heavy and reeking of lake water and smoke.

"He's going to think we drowned," Beatrice chattered, her teeth clicking. She clutched her wounded shoulder. "He'll wait for the bodies to float."

"Then we have time," Elena said. She checked her pocket. The burner phone was dead, drowned. But the death certificate was in a plastic sleeve. It was safe.

They walked to the highway, flagging down a late-night trucker who looked at their wet clothes and didn't ask questions, just drove them to a Motel 6 on the county line.

***

The room smelled of lemon cleaner and stale cigarettes. Elena stripped off her wet sweater, wrapping herself in a scratchy towel. Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed, one arm out of her coat, examining the graze on her shoulder in the bathroom mirror.

"It's not deep," Beatrice said, wincing as she dabbed it with a wet washcloth. "He missed the bone."

"He won't miss next time," Elena said. She sat at the small round table, her adrenaline crashing into exhaustion. "We lost the tapes. They burned."

"We didn't lose everything," Beatrice said.

She reached into the deep pocket of her trench coat. It was soaked, dripping onto the carpet. She pulled out a blue, leather-bound book.

The ledger.

Elena stared at it. "How..."

"I found it in the boot," Beatrice said, a grim smile touching her lips. "When I was tearing apart your closet looking for the gold. I thought you were hiding cash. When I saw it was Vane's handwriting, I took it. Leverage."

Elena grabbed the book. The leather was wet, but the pages inside were dry. "You saved us."

"I saved my investment," Beatrice corrected, but her voice lacked its usual bite.

Elena opened the book to October 1986. The ink was sharp, aggressive.

*Oct 14. Transport. $2,000. J.B.*
*Oct 28. Acquisition. $50,000. T.A.*

"I couldn't read the codes," Elena said, tracing the initials. "I thought they were account numbers."

Beatrice moved to the table, looking over Elena's shoulder. She squinted at the page.

"They aren't numbers," she whispered. "They're people."

"Who?"

"J.B.," Beatrice said, pointing to the transport entry. "That's Jeremiah Barnes. The old groundskeeper. He died in '95. He had a truck large enough to move... cargo."

"He moved the body," Elena realized. "During the storm."

"And T.A.," Beatrice murmured, her finger hovering over the fifty-thousand-dollar entry. "That's not a person. That's a location. Or a group."

"The Agency?" Elena guessed.

"No," Beatrice shook her head. "Vane didn't use agencies. He used fixers."

She flipped the pages back, scanning the entries from earlier years. *1984. 1985.* She stopped at a payment in 1982.

*June. Retainer. $10,000. T.A.*

"I remember this," Beatrice said slowly. "I was sixteen. I found a letter on Vane's desk. It was stationary with a specific letterhead. A caduceus wrapped around a tree."

"A doctor?"

"No," Beatrice said. "A facilitator. *The Thorne Agency*."

"Dr. Thorne?"

"His brother," Beatrice said. "Thomas Thorne. He wasn't a doctor. He was a private investigator who specialized in 'difficult family matters.' He ran a firm in the city."

Elena looked at the entry for October 28, 1986.

*Acquisition. $50,000. T.A.*

"They didn't adopt Julian," Beatrice said, her voice hollow. "They hired a private investigator to find a child who matched the description."

"But who did they buy him from?"

"Thomas Thorne would know," Beatrice said. "But he's dead. He died in prison ten years ago."

"Then the trail is cold."

"Not necessarily," Beatrice said. She tapped the ledger. "Look at the recurring payments. Every month, for five years after the acquisition. Five hundred dollars. To *V.M.*"

Elena looked at the dates. November 1986 to November 1991.

*V.M.*

"Valerie," Elena whispered. "Valerie Moore? Miller?"

"Valerie was the artist," Beatrice said. "But look at the note next to the final payment."

Elena leaned in. The handwriting was cramped, almost illegible.

*Final Settlement. Subject Relocated. Portland.*

"She didn't just sell him," Elena said, the horror rising in her throat. "She took a monthly stipend to stay away. And then they paid her to disappear."

Beatrice looked at the ledger, then at Elena.

"The entry for the fifty thousand dollars," Beatrice said. "It wasn't for a hospital bill. And it wasn't for a lawyer."

"What was it for?"

"It was a finder's fee," Beatrice said. "To *The Agency*. For locating a specific biological match."

She turned the book to face Elena.

"They didn't just find a random baby, Elena. They found a cousin. Or a half-sibling. Someone with the blood."

Elena thought of the earlobes. The eyes. The resemblance that was close enough to pass for forty years.

"Silas Vane," Elena whispered.

"Vane isn't just the executor," Beatrice said. "He's the father."