Chapter 28: The Plan

I pressed myself deeper into the coats, the wool scratching my cheek. The closet door handle turned. I held my breath, every muscle tensed, ready to spring or scream or... what? Eleanor was in a wheelchair, but Marcus was six feet of corporate muscle. And Richard—Richard was a wild card, oscillating between panic and desperation.

The door creaked open. A sliver of light cut across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air.

"She's not in here," Richard’s voice said from the doorway. He sounded exhausted, defeat heavy in his tone. "I checked the guest room. She's gone."

"She can't have gone far," Eleanor snapped. "Her car is still in the driveway. The keys are on the console."

"Maybe she walked," Richard suggested weakly.

"Walked? In those heels? Don't be an idiot." Eleanor wheeled herself away from the closet, her frustration vibrating in the air. "Check the security cameras. All of them. I want to know exactly where she went."

The door didn't close.

I waited. One minute. Two.

I could hear them moving around the office. The click of a keyboard. The murmur of voices.

"Camera four is down," Marcus said. "The one covering the back patio."

"Of course it is," Eleanor hissed. "We've been meaning to fix that for months. Incompetence everywhere I look."

"Wait," Richard said. "Camera two. By the garage. There she is."

I froze. I had forgotten about the garage camera.

"Zoom in," Eleanor commanded.

"She's... she's going into the garage," Richard said. "At 11:15 AM."

"And coming out?"

"No," Richard said slowly. "She hasn't come out."

My stomach dropped. I was still in the garage, according to their timeline. But I wasn't. I was right here.

"Then she's hiding," Marcus concluded. "She's still on the property. We need to lock it down. Now."

"Do it," Eleanor said. "Call security. Tell them we have an intruder. A corporate spy."

"What about the police?" Richard asked.

"No police," Eleanor said sharply. "Not yet. We find her first. We get the documents back. Then we call the police."

I heard the sound of a phone being dialed. Marcus barking orders.

"Perimeter lockdown. Nobody in or out. Search every room. Every closet."

Every closet.

I looked at the open door. The slice of light was widening. Someone was walking toward it.

"I'll check in here again," Marcus said. "Just to be sure."

I looked around frantically. The closet was small, lined with shelves and racks. There was no other exit. No window. Just the door Marcus was approaching.

I saw a garment bag hanging at the very back, thick and opaque. I unzipped it silently and stepped inside, pulling the zipper up just as Marcus’s shadow fell across the floor.

He stepped into the closet. I could hear his breathing. Heavy. Deliberate.

He pushed aside a row of coats. The hangers clattered. He was getting closer.

He stopped in front of the garment bag. I held my breath, my heart pounding so hard I thought he must hear it.

He reached out. I saw his hand through the thin fabric, a dark shape against the light.

"Marcus!" Eleanor shouted from the office. "The bank is on line one. They're asking about the transfer."

Marcus paused. His hand hovered for a second, then dropped.

"Coming," he called back.

He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

I let out a breath that was half sob, half prayer. I unzipped the bag and stepped out, my legs shaking.

I had to get out of here. But the house was locked down. Security was sweeping the grounds.

I looked at the passports in my purse. *Elena Blackwood.*

If I was going to escape, I couldn't be Elena Vane. I had to be the ghost they created.

I crept to the door and listened. The office was empty. They were all clustered around the speakerphone, arguing with the bank.

I slipped out. I didn't go to the main door. I went to the window.

It opened onto a narrow ledge that ran along the side of the house. A decorative feature, useless for anything except desperate escapes.

I climbed out. The wind whipped my hair across my face. I looked down. It was a twenty-foot drop to the rose bushes below.

I shimmied along the ledge, my fingers gripping the rough stone. I needed to get to the guest house. To Catherine.

She was the key. She was the only one who knew the truth about the baby. About the money.

And if I was right about the painting... she hated them as much as I did.

I reached the corner of the house. I looked down. The trellis was overgrown, thick with thorns.

I grabbed it. The thorns bit into my palms, but I didn't let go. I climbed down, tearing my dress, scratching my arms.

I hit the ground and rolled into the bushes.

"Hey!" A voice shouted from the driveway. A security guard.

He started running toward me.

I scrambled up and ran. Not toward the gate. Toward the guest house.

I reached the door and pounded on it.

"Catherine! Open up!"

The guard was closing in. "Stop right there!"

The door opened.

But it wasn't Catherine.

It was the nurse. Greta.

She looked at me, wild-eyed and bleeding, then at the guard running across the lawn.

She pulled me inside and slammed the door.

"You took your time," she hissed.