The Deal

The motorcycle ride back to the safe house was a blur of adrenaline and cold wind. I parked the Ducati next to the Honda and let myself in.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

I went to the kitchen and made coffee. My hands were shaking so badly I spilled the grounds on the counter.

I sat at the table, the hard drive in front of me.

I had the evidence. I had an ally. I had a plan.

But I still didn't have Margaret.

And I didn't have a way to communicate with her.

If we were going to pull this off, she needed to be ready. She needed to know that someone was coming. That she hadn't been forgotten.

I thought about the medication schedule. The chemical fog.

If I couldn't get her off the drugs, maybe I could give her something to hold onto. Something real.

I pulled a notepad from my purse. I wrote a message.

*I know you're alive. We're coming for you. Friday. Be ready.*

It wasn't enough. It was just words on paper. She might think it was another hallucination. another trick.

I needed something personal. Something only I would know.

I thought about the funeral. The lilies. The closed casket.

And then I remembered the ring.

The emerald ring Corinne wore. The one Arthur had stolen from his "dead" wife.

I didn't have the ring. But I had a picture of it on my burner phone. A close-up I had taken at dinner, zooming in on the chip in the stone.

I printed the photo on the small wireless printer in Julian's home office.

I folded the note around the photo.

Now I just needed a way to get it to her.

Sarah had said she was on shift tonight. But she couldn't just walk into the secure wing and hand a patient a note. The cameras were everywhere.

I texted her.

*I need to get a message to her. Tonight.*

The reply came three minutes later.

*Impossible. Administrator is doing rounds. He's watching the monitors like a hawk.*

*Is there a blind spot?* I typed.

*Only one. The laundry chute.*

I stared at the phone.

The laundry chute.

It was risky. If the note was found, it would be over. Arthur would know there was a leak. He would move her. Or worse.

But it was the only way.

*Can you get to the chute on the 4th floor?* I asked.

*Yes. But it drops to the basement. Not into her room.*

*I know,* I typed. *But who empties the laundry?*

There was a long pause.

*Tessa,* Sarah replied.

Tessa. The maid who had seen the blood. The maid who had helped me before.

*Tell Tessa to check the gray linens,* I typed. *The ones from Room 402.*

Another pause. Then:

*Okay. But you owe me more than money for this.*

*I know,* I typed back.

I drove to the facility. I parked in the woods again. I walked to the service yard.

I waited by the dumpster until I saw the light in the break room window flash twice. The signal.

I crept to the back door. It opened a crack.

Sarah’s hand reached out.

I pressed the note into her palm.

"Be careful," I whispered.

"Go," she hissed.

The door closed.

I ran back to the woods. I sat in the car, watching the building. Waiting.

An hour passed. Two.

My phone buzzed.

It was a picture message from Sarah.

A photo of a hand. Thin, translucent skin, veins like blue rivers.

Clutching the note.

And underneath, a reply scrawled in shaky, spiderweb script on the back of the photo.

*He's not just scared of the money, Elena.*

I zoomed in on the next line.

*He's scared of the baby.*

I stared at the screen.

What baby?

Margaret was sixty years old when she "died." She wasn't pregnant.

I looked at the text again.

*The baby.*

I thought about the timeline. The "accident." The argument Tessa had heard.

*I know about the tower, Arthur. I know what's in the concrete.*

I had assumed she meant bodies. Plural.

But what if she meant one specific body?

I typed a reply to Sarah.

*What baby?*

The response was immediate.

*Write it now. I have a shift in an hour.*