Chapter 43: The Escape

The headlights behind them weren't just following; they were hunting. The beams were high, blindingly bright, flooding the SUV's cabin with stark, aggressive light. Elena twisted in her seat, squinting against the glare.

"Is it Vane?" she shouted over the roar of the engine.

"It's a sedan," Beatrice said, her eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "A Mercedes. Vane drives a Jaguar."

"His security detail?"

"Or a hired gun," Beatrice said, jerking the wheel to the left as the road curved sharply. The SUV skidded on the loose gravel, the tires screaming. "Vane doesn't like loose ends. And right now, we're three very loose ends."

"Pull over," Julian said. He was pulling his clothes back on, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Let me talk to them. I'm still the heir. They won't hurt me."

"You're not the heir!" Elena snapped. "You're the evidence. And if you stop this car, we're all dead."

The sedan surged forward, closing the gap. It rammed the bumper of the SUV, a metal-on-metal crunch that jarred Elena's teeth.

"Hold on!" Beatrice yelled.

She slammed on the brakes. The SUV shuddered to a halt in the middle of the road.

The sedan behind them screeched, swerving to avoid a collision. It spun out, sliding sideways into the ditch.

Beatrice didn't wait. She hit the gas again, leaving the sedan in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

"That bought us five minutes," Beatrice said, her voice tight with pain. "We need to get to the cottage."

They drove through the backwoods, the trees closing in like bars of a cage. The guest cottage was hidden, tucked away near the old stables. Mrs. Gable had lived there for forty years, a silent sentinel of the Hawthorne secrets.

Beatrice killed the headlights as they approached. They rolled to a stop in the shadows of the old barn.

"Stay here," Elena said.

"I'm coming with you," Julian said. He looked terrified, but determined. "I need to hear it."

They ran across the lawn to the cottage. The windows were dark.

Elena pounded on the door. "Mrs. Gable! It's Elena! Open up!"

No answer.

Elena tried the handle. Locked.

She looked under the mat. Nothing. She checked the flower pot. Nothing.

"Try the window," Beatrice hissed from the car.

Elena went to the side window. She peered in. The cottage was neat, tidy, empty.

But on the kitchen table, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, was a suitcase. Packed.

And next to it, a note.

Elena smashed the window with a rock from the garden. She reached in, unlocked it, and climbed through.

She picked up the note.

*I'm sorry. He knows.*

Mrs. Gable was gone. Vane had gotten to her first.

"She's gone," Elena said, climbing back out. "Vane took her."

"Then we have nothing," Julian said, sinking onto the grass. "No witness. No proof."

"We have the birthmark," Elena said. "And we have a name. The artist."

"Who?" Julian asked. "Who was he?"

"Valerie said he died in a fire," Elena said, her mind racing. "A fire in 1983? 1984? We need to find the record."

"The library archives are closed until Monday," Beatrice called from the car. "And the internet at the manor is jammed."

"Not the public library," Elena said. "The newspaper. The *Daily Gazette*. Their morgue is in the basement of the printing office. It's keyed entry, but the editor owes me a favor."

"What favor?" Julian asked.

"I archived his family history last year," Elena said. "I found out his grandfather wasn't a war hero, but a deserter. I kept it quiet."

They got back in the SUV. Beatrice drove fast, her face set in a grim mask. They reached the town center. The newspaper office was a brick building on Main Street, dark and silent.

Elena used the code the editor had given her. The back door clicked open.

They went down to the basement. The air smelled of ink and dust. Rows of filing cabinets stretched into the darkness.

Elena went to the section marked *1983*.

She pulled the drawers open. *Fires. Fatalities.*

She flipped through the yellowed clippings. *Barn fire. House fire. Arson.*

And then she found it.

*October 14, 1983. Local Artist Perishes in Studio Blaze.*

The headline was small, buried on page four.

*Jack Miller, 26, a local painter known for his landscapes of the Hawthorne estate, died yesterday in a fire that consumed his rented studio on the outskirts of town. Authorities suspect a faulty heater.*

*Survived by his partner, Valerie Moore, and their infant son.*

Elena stared at the photo accompanying the article. It was grainy, a headshot of a young man with wild hair and intense eyes.

He had Julian’s chin. He had Julian’s eyes.

But it was the next line that made Elena’s blood run cold.

*The property was owned by the Hawthorne Trust.*

Vane hadn't just killed the artist. He had been his landlord.

"Jack Miller," Julian whispered, looking over her shoulder. "My name is Jack Miller."

"And your father," Elena said, pointing to the text, "didn't die in an accident. He died on Hawthorne land."

She pulled the clipping from the file.

"We have a name," she said. "Now we find the grave."

But as they turned to leave, the lights in the basement flickered.

And then they went out.

"Not again," Beatrice whispered.

The door at the top of the stairs opened.

A silhouette appeared.

"Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes, Elena," a voice said.

It wasn't Vane.

It was Mrs. Gable.

And she was holding a gas can.