Chapter 48: The Infant Brace

The countdown on the screen was a heartbeat made of red LEDs. *00:08.*

Elena shoved Beatrice toward the dark opening in the wall. "Move!"

Beatrice scrambled into the tunnel, scraping her injured shoulder against the rough stone but not stopping. Julian grabbed the bin from the plinth.

"Leave it!" Elena screamed. "We don't have time!"

"I'm not leaving him again," Julian said. He hugged the plastic crate to his chest and dove into the passage.

Elena followed, pulling the heavy stone plaque closed behind her.

*00:04.*

The tunnel was narrow, damp, and smelled of rot. They stumbled forward, feeling their way along the walls.

*00:02.*

Elena threw herself to the ground, covering her head. "Down!"

The explosion was muted by the stone, a deep *thump* that vibrated through the floor and shook dust from the ceiling. But the pressure wave was real. It slammed into the plaque, sealing them in.

Dust filled the air, choking and thick.

"Is everyone okay?" Elena coughed, waving her hand in front of her face.

"I'm fine," Beatrice wheezed from ahead.

"Julian?"

"I've got the box," he said. "It's safe."

Elena turned on her phone light. The tunnel stretched ahead of them, a black throat leading into the earth. Behind them, the way was blocked by rubble.

"The bomb," Beatrice said, her voice shaking. "He knew. He knew we'd find the grave."

"He didn't just want to destroy the evidence," Elena said. "He wanted to destroy us with it. A tragic accident in the family crypt. The grieving widow and the unstable sister-in-law, lost to grief."

She looked at Julian. He was clutching the bin like a lifeline. He looked younger in the dim light, stripped of his arrogance, stripped of his name.

"We have to keep moving," Elena said. "This tunnel leads to the river. There used to be a grate near the old mill."

They walked for twenty minutes. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder and wetter. Finally, they saw a glimmer of moonlight ahead.

The grate.

But it was welded shut.

Beatrice rattled the bars. "It's solid."

"Let me see," Julian said. He set the bin down and examined the metal. "The hinges are rusted. If we hit them hard enough..."

He looked around. There was nothing loose. No rocks. No tools.

Except the brace.

Elena opened the bin. She pulled out the heavy steel leg brace that had bound the dead baby.

"Use this," she said.

Julian took it. He looked at the instrument of his brother's torture. Then he swung it.

*Clang.*

The rust flaked. He hit it again. And again. The sound rang out into the night, a bell tolling for the dead.

The hinge snapped.

They pushed the grate open and crawled out onto the riverbank. The water was high, black and fast-moving.

"We need a car," Beatrice said. "My SUV is back at the gate."

"The police are at the gate," Elena said. "And the cleanup crew."

She looked down the river. "The boathouse burned down. But the maintenance skiff... it's usually moored by the weir."

They ran along the bank, slipping in the mud. The skiff was there, bobbing in the current. It was small, aluminum, with a sputtering outboard motor.

They piled in. Julian started the engine. It coughed, then caught.

They pushed off into the current, drifting away from the estate, away from the crypt, away from the life they had known.

As the manor disappeared behind the trees, Elena looked at the bin sitting in the bottom of the boat.

"We have the body," she said. "We have the DNA. We can prove the murder."

"And then what?" Beatrice asked. "We go to the police? Vane owns them."

"Not the police," Elena said. "The press. The public. We give them a story they can't ignore."

She looked at Julian.

"We give them the heir who came back from the dead."

"But I'm not the heir," Julian said quietly. "I'm the spare. The replacement."

"To the trust, you're the heir," Elena said. "Until we prove otherwise. And right now, we need that money. We need Vane's resources to fight him."

She reached for her phone. She dialed a number she hadn't used in years.

"Who are you calling?" Beatrice asked.

"The editor of the *Daily Gazette*," Elena said. "The one who owes me a favor."

The line rang. Once. Twice.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice answered.

"Jim," Elena said. "It's Elena Hawthorne. I have a scoop for you. But I need you to meet me. Now."

"Elena? It's 3 AM. What kind of scoop?"

"The kind that brings down a dynasty," Elena said.

"Where?"

"The old mill," Elena said. "Bring a camera. And bring a witness."

"What kind of witness?"

"A coroner," Elena said. "I have a body I need certified."

She hung up.

"He'll come," she said.

The skiff bumped against the rotting wood of the mill dock. They climbed out.

Elena looked at Julian. He was shivering, holding the bin.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But I don't have a choice."

"None of us do," Beatrice said.

They walked into the mill. It was empty, shadowy.

Elena set the bin on a workbench. She opened the lid.

She looked at the bones. At the letter. At the photo.

She picked up the photo of Vane and Valerie.

"He kept this," she whispered. "Why?"

"Because he's sentimental?" Beatrice scoffed.

"No," Elena said. "Vane isn't sentimental. He keeps things that have value. Leverage."

She turned the photo over.

On the back, written in faded ink, was a series of numbers.

*10-14-86-445.*

"A date," Julian said. "October 14, 1986. The day of the fire. The day of the swap."

"And 445?" Elena asked.

"The job number," Julian said. "From the contractor. For the window."

Elena’s mind raced. The window. The fire. The date.

"It's not just a memory," she realized. "It's a location."

"What location?"

"The safe deposit box in Zurich," Elena said. "The key wasn't in the book. The key is the house itself."

She looked at Julian.

"The contractor removed the dormer. But he didn't destroy the space. He sealed it."

"So?"

"So whatever was in that room," Elena said, "is still there. Walled up."

"You think Vane hid something in the wall?" Beatrice asked.

"I think," Elena said, "that's where he put the real ledger. The one that lists every child he ever sold."

Headlights swept across the mill windows.

Jim was here.

But as the car door slammed, Elena saw another light.

A red laser dot.

It danced across the dusty floor. It climbed the workbench.

And settled on the plastic bin.

"Get down!" Elena screamed.

A shot rang out.

The bin exploded.

Bone fragments and lavender scattered across the floor.

The evidence was gone.

And in the doorway of the mill, silhouetted against the headlights, stood Sheriff Brady.

He racked the slide of his rifle.

"Mr. Vane sends his regards," he said.