The Stakeout

I had confirmed she was alive. I had seen her name on the screen. But seeing a name on a screen isn't the same as seeing a face.

I needed visual proof. Something I could show the police. Something I could show the world if my dead man's switch failed.

I checked my watch. 3:45 AM.

I had been in the ceiling for almost an hour. My knees were bruised, my throat dry from the dust.

The hallway below was quiet. Sarah had disappeared into the nurses' station. The night guard was probably doing his rounds on the lower floors.

I crawled back to the vent over the janitorial closet. I pushed the tile up and dropped down, landing on the linoleum with a soft *thud*.

I slipped out into the hallway.

I didn't go to the elevator. I went to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

The door was heavy. I pushed it open slowly, wincing as the hinges groaned.

The stairwell was concrete, lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes. It smelled of cold air and damp stone.

I went down. One flight. Two.

I needed to get outside. I needed to get to the perimeter fence. The room faced the back of the property, overlooking the ravine. If I could get to the edge of the woods, I could see into her window.

I reached the ground floor. I peeked through the small window in the door.

The hallway led to the loading dock. It was empty. The laundry truck was gone. The door was closed.

But there was a fire exit next to the dock. *Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound.*

I looked at the alarm box. The green light was steady.

But the wires running from the box to the door frame were exposed. Old construction. Sloppy.

I pulled a bobby pin from my pocket. I jammed it into the wire casing, twisting until the plastic stripped away. I crossed the wires.

A spark. A sizzle.

The green light went out.

I pushed the bar. The door opened. No alarm.

I stepped out into the cold night air.

I was in the service yard again. The dumpster loomed to my left. The woods were a black wall ahead of me.

I ran.

I made it to the tree line and didn't stop until I was deep in the undergrowth. I circled around the building, moving toward the ravine side.

The ground sloped sharply downward. I grabbed a sapling to steady myself.

I looked up.

The facility was a fortress of stone rising out of the hill. The windows on the fourth floor were dark.

Except for one.

Room 402.

A faint light glowed from inside. A nightlight. Or a lamp.

I pulled the binoculars from my pocket. I had bought them at Walmart along with the dye and the burner phone. Cheap, plastic, but better than nothing.

I raised them to my eyes. I adjusted the focus.

The window leaped into view.

I could see the bed. Empty. The sheets were undisturbed.

I scanned to the right.

There was a chair by the window.

And someone was sitting in it.

A woman.

She was facing away from me, looking out into the darkness. Her hair was silver, long and loose down her back. She was wearing a white nightgown.

She raised a hand.

It held a hairbrush.

She began to brush her hair. One stroke. Two strokes. Three.

Rhythmic. Obsessive.

I knew that motion. I had watched her do it a thousand times at her vanity in the big house. I had watched her do it the night before she "died," when she was so agitated she had brushed until her scalp bled.

It was her.

I fumbled for my phone. I needed a picture. I needed video.

But as I raised the phone, a light swept across the yard.

Headlights.

A vehicle was coming down the service road. Not a delivery truck. Not a patrol car.

It was a black SUV. The same kind Arthur used for his private security.

It stopped near the loading dock. Two men got out. They opened the back.

They pulled out a wheelchair.

And then they went inside.

They weren't delivering laundry.

They were coming for her.

I looked back up at the window. The woman was still brushing her hair. She didn't know they were coming. She didn't know her time in the cage was up.

I didn't need to get in the front door. I didn't need to get in the loading dock.

I needed to get to that room before they did.