The Back Window

Harrison’s voice through the glass was the sound of a lid closing on a coffin. Eleanor didn’t answer. She didn't breathe. She lunged for the small, grimy bathroom, her hand finding Chloe’s sweatshirt in the dark and hauling her upward.

The actuary in her mind was already calculating the distance to the tree line behind the motel. Harrison was right about the police. The Amber Alert meant every cruiser within fifty miles was looking for her SUV. The car was no longer a tool; it was a tracking beacon.

"The window," Eleanor hissed, shoving Chloe toward the narrow frosted pane above the toilet.

"I can't," Chloe whimpered, her teeth chattering so hard the sound seemed to echo off the tiled walls.

"You have to." Eleanor boosted the girl up, her muscles screaming with the effort.

Chloe scrambled through the frame, her sneakers disappearing into the night. Eleanor grabbed her laptop and the heavy tote bag, then hauled herself up. The rough aluminum track bit into her palms as she rolled out, falling into a patch of wet, thigh-high weeds.

The humid air was thick with the smell of stagnant water and pine needles. Behind them, the motel was a dark, silent silhouette. The black sedan remained idling at the edge of the lot, a predator waiting for the flush.

"Leave the car," Eleanor whispered, grabbing Chloe's arm.

"But our things—"

"It doesn't matter. Run."

They bolted into the dense woods just as the first blue and red strobes illuminated the motel's front office. The wail of sirens grew into a deafening roar, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. Eleanor led them deeper into the undergrowth, branches clawing at her face, her flats slipping on the mud.

A steep embankment dropped off twenty yards in. Eleanor slid down, dragging Chloe with her, until they hit the bottom of a concrete drainage ditch. The water was ankle-deep and freezing, smelling of road salt and old oil.

"Get down," Eleanor commanded, pulling Chloe into the shadows of the culvert.

They pressed their bodies against the cold, slimy concrete. Above them, the woods flooded with light. Flashlights swept the canopy like searchlights in a war zone. The sound of heavy boots crunched through the brush, accompanied by the frantic, high-pitched barking of K-9 units.

Eleanor peaked over the edge of the ditch, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the concrete.

Through a gap in the trees, the motel parking lot was a stage. A dozen cruisers blocked the exits. In the center of the chaos, Harrison stood under the glare of a police spotlight. He was hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with calculated grief.

A high-ranking officer had his hand on Harrison’s shoulder, nodding solemnly. Harrison looked up, his face a mask of devastated fatherhood, pointing a trembling finger toward the woods where they lay hidden.

She watched Harrison perform for the police, playing the distraught father perfectly. He had won the narrative again.