The Script

My hand closed around the bundle of wires under the dash.

There was no finesse. No careful selection of the red wire or the blue wire. I just grabbed everything I could feel—plastic sheathing, copper cores, zip ties—and yanked with everything I had.

*Snap.*

Sparks showered my feet. The smell of burning plastic filled the cabin.

The infotainment screen died. The red text vanished.

The engine sputtered.

But the car was still doing eighty. Still hurtling toward the cliff.

"Steer!" Sasha screamed. "Elena, steer!"

I grabbed the wheel.

It was heavy. Dead weight. The power steering was gone.

I threw my whole body into it, wrenching it to the left.

The tires shrieked. The car drifted, skidding sideways on the wet asphalt.

The guardrail rushed up to meet us.

*We're not going to make it.*

I slammed on the brakes. The pedal went to the floor. No ABS. Just raw friction.

We hit the rail.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The world spun.

We didn't go over.

We slammed into the rail sideways, grinding along the metal barrier for fifty feet before the car finally, mercifully, shuddered to a halt.

Silence.

Then, the hissing of steam from the engine.

"Sasha?" I whispered.

"I'm here," she groaned. She was clutching her arm. "I think it's broken."

I looked out the window. We were inches from the edge. Below us, the black water of the Puget Sound churned against the rocks.

"We have to move," I said. "He knows we stopped."

I tried my door. Jammed.

I kicked it. Once. Twice.

It groaned open.

I crawled out onto the wet road. I ran around to the passenger side and helped Sasha out.

She leaned on me, her face pale.

"Where now?" she asked.

"The woods," I said. "We can't stay on the road."

We scrambled up the embankment, into the thick cover of the fir trees.

We didn't stop until we were deep in the forest, hidden by the fog and the dark.

I sat Sasha down on a fallen log. I ripped the sleeve of my shirt and tied it around her arm as a makeshift sling.

"He hacked the car," Sasha whispered. "How did he hack the car?"

"He didn't hack it," I said. "He owned it. It was a company car. Registered to Vance Crisis Management."

I pulled out my main phone. Dead. The crash had smashed the screen.

I pulled out the burner.

One bar.

One new message.

From Julian.

*Nice driving, El. But you can't walk to Seattle.*

He knew we were alive. He knew we were in the woods.

I looked at Sasha.

"We need a vehicle," I said. "One that isn't connected to the grid."

"Like what?" Sasha asked. "A horse?"

"No," I said. "Something older."

I thought about the map of Aerie Point. The original survey map I had studied when I bought the land.

There was an old logging road that cut through the north woods. It led to a maintenance shed.

And inside that shed...

"The caretaker's truck," I said.

"What caretaker?"

"The one who looks after the property in the off-season. Old man Miller. He drives a 1985 Ford Bronco. No computer. No GPS. No OnStar."

"Does it run?"

"I don't know," I said. "But it's our only chance."

We started walking.

The woods were dark and cold. Every snapping twig sounded like a gunshot.

We reached the shed an hour later.

It was a rusted corrugated metal shack, overgrown with blackberries.

The door was padlocked.

I looked around for a rock. I found a heavy stone and smashed the lock.

It took three hits.

The door creaked open.

Inside, it smelled of gasoline and dust.

And there it was.

The Bronco. Rusted, dented, sitting on flat tires.

"It looks dead," Sasha said.

"It has to work," I said.

I opened the driver's door. The keys were in the ignition. Old Miller was trusting.

I turned the key.

*Chug-chug-chug.*

Nothing.

"Come on," I whispered.

I tried again.

*Chug-chug-chug-VROOM.*

The engine roared to life. A cloud of black smoke shot out of the tailpipe.

"Yes!" Sasha cried.

We climbed in. The tires thumped as we rolled out of the shed, but they held air.

I turned on the headlights.

Yellow beams cut through the fog.

We drove down the logging road, bouncing over roots and rocks.

We hit the main highway five miles later.

I didn't turn toward the city.

I turned back toward Aerie Point.

"Elena?" Sasha asked. "What are you doing? The police station is the other way."

"We can't go to the police," I said. "Not yet. Julian has the evidence. He has the servers. He has the narrative. If we go to the cops now, it's our word against his. And he has a team of lawyers and a PR firm."

"So what are we doing?"

"We're going to the launch," I said.

"The launch?"

"The party is tonight," I said. "At the Convention Center. All the investors. The press. The board."

"And Julian," Sasha said.

"And Julian."

I gripped the steering wheel.

"He wants a show," I said. "I'm going to give him one."

We drove in silence for a while. The old truck rattled and shook.

"Elena," Sasha said softly. "The woman in the sub-basement. The mannequin. It looked like you."

"I know."

"But it wasn't just... dressed like you. It had marks on it."

I glanced at her. "What kind of marks?"

"Surgery marks," she said. "Lines drawn on the face. On the body. Like... like he was planning to change it."

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Change it to what?"

"To look like Sarah," she whispered.

I slammed on the brakes.

The truck skidded to a halt in the middle of the empty highway.

"What did you say?"

"I saw a photo," Sasha said. "In the room with the mannequin. Taped to the mirror. It was Sarah. But she looked... different. Her hair was cut like yours. She was wearing your clothes."

I stared at her.

"He wasn't trying to make me look like Sarah," I whispered. "He made Sarah look like *me*."

The pieces slammed together in my mind.

The death certificate. The disappearance.

Sarah didn't die three years ago.

She didn't run away.

She was *replaced*.

Julian had found someone else. Someone he could mold. Someone he could control.

Me.

And when he was done with me... he would find someone else.

Unless Sarah was still alive.

"The text," I said. "The one from Sarah. *I'm the one in the basement.*"

"You think she's still there?" Sasha asked. "In the sub-basement?"

"I think," I said, putting the truck in gear, "that we left someone behind."

I turned the truck around.

"We're not going to the launch," I said.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the house," I said. "We have to find her."

We drove back up the mountain. Back into the fog.

When we reached the gate of Aerie Point, it was open.

The lights were back on in the Glass Box. Blazing.

We parked the truck in the woods and walked up the driveway.

The front door was open.

We walked in.

The house was empty. Quiet.

"Julian?" I called out.

No answer.

We walked to the kitchen. The pantry door was open.

The wine rack was swung out.

The secret stairwell was illuminated.

"Stay here," I told Sasha.

"No way," she said. "I'm coming with you."

We went down.

The stairs ended in a long concrete hallway.

At the end of the hall was a door.

It was open.

We walked into the room.

The mannequin was gone.

The chair was empty.

But on the wall...

The monitors were on.

And on the center screen...

Was a live feed.

Of the Convention Center.

The launch party.

Julian was on stage. He was wearing a tuxedo. He looked handsome. Charming. The perfect CEO.

He was speaking into a microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Tonight, we are not just launching a community. We are launching a new era of safety. A world where you never have to be afraid."

He smiled.

"But first," he said. "I want to introduce you to the inspiration behind it all. The woman who made this possible."

He gestured to the side of the stage.

"Please welcome... my wife. Elena Vance."

I stared at the screen.

A woman walked onto the stage.

She was wearing my dress. My red gala dress.

She had my hair. My walk.

She turned to the camera.

It wasn't me.

It was Sarah.

But she looked exactly like me.

The surgery marks on the mannequin. The practice.

He had remade her.

Sarah smiled at the camera. It was a terrified, frozen smile.

"Thank you, Julian," she said. Her voice sounded like mine.

"Oh my god," Sasha whispered. "He replaced you."

"No," I said. "He didn't replace me."

I looked at the time on the screen.

*Live.*

"He's erasing me," I said.

My phone buzzed.

The burner.

One new message.

From Julian.

*Asset retired.*

I looked at the screen.

Then I looked at the room around me.

The concrete walls. The soundproofing. The single chair.

This wasn't a monitoring station.

It was a cell.

And we had just walked into it.

Behind us, the door to the hallway slammed shut.

The lock engaged with a heavy, mechanical *thud*.

And then, from the speakers in the ceiling...

The whistling started.

*Hush, little baby...*

But this time, it wasn't a recording.

It was live.

Coming from the other side of the door.

"Did you really think," Julian's voice said through the speaker, "that I would leave the house unguarded?"

I looked at the monitors.

On the screen, Julian was still on stage.

"That's a recording," I whispered. "The livestream is a loop."

"He's not at the party," Sasha said, her voice rising in panic.

"No," I said.

I looked at the door.

"He's here."