The Reply

"Hi, honey," I said, leaning against the counter, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "You're home early."

Julian stood in the doorway, a shadow against the dim light of the hall. He wasn't alone.

A man stood behind him. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that cost more than my car. I recognized him instantly.

It was Miller. The head of security. The man who had taken my flash drive.

"We need to talk, Elena," Julian said. His voice was flat, empty of the warmth he had shown just hours ago.

"About what?" I asked, forcing a casual tone. I slid the laptop behind a stack of cookbooks.

"About loyalty," Miller said, stepping into the kitchen. He filled the space, sucking the air out of the room. "And theft."

He placed the decoy flash drive on the counter.

"This was empty," he said. "Or rather, it was full of family photos. Which is touching, Mrs. Hawthorne. But we know you accessed the server."

"I didn't," I said. "I'm locked out. Remember?"

"We know about the admin account," Julian said. He looked at the floor, unable to meet my eyes. "The 'Ghost' account. Dad's IT guys found the breach ten minutes ago."

My stomach dropped. I had been careless. I had been rushed.

"Julian," I said. "You have to listen to me. Your father—"

"Stop," he said. "Just stop lying, Elena. Please."

He looked up then, and I saw the conflict in his face. The fear. The desperate need to believe the lie because the truth was too terrible to bear.

"Where is it?" Miller asked. "The real drive. The one you downloaded the blueprints to."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Miller took a step toward me. He wasn't smiling. "Mr. Hawthorne authorized me to use whatever means necessary to secure company property."

"Arthur authorized you?" I asked. "Or Julian? Because Julian is the CEO now."

I looked at my husband. "Are you going to let him hurt me, Julian? Is that the kind of CEO you're going to be?"

Julian flinched.

"Just give him the drive, El," he whispered. "And you can go. You can take the kids. You can leave. I won't stop you."

"I can't leave," I said. "Not without Margaret."

The name hung in the air like smoke.

"She's dead," Julian said, his voice rising. "Why can't you accept that?"

"Because I have proof," I said.

I didn't reach for the drive. I reached for my phone.

*Ding.*

A text message.

I glanced at the screen. It was Sarah.

A photo.

Not of Margaret. Not of a note.

It was a photo of a document. An old, yellowed piece of paper.

*Certificate of Live Birth.*
*Date: Jan 15, 2016.*
*Mother: Margaret Hawthorne.*
*Father: Unknown.*

*Child: Stillborn.*

I stared at the image.

Margaret had given birth the day after she "died."

But the baby wasn't stillborn. The notation I had seen on the blueprints—*Occupancy: 1*—proved that.

Arthur had buried the child in the foundation. To hide the scandal? To hide the father?

"Give me the phone," Miller said.

He lunged.

I dodged. I threw the coffee mug at him. Hot liquid splashed his face. He roared in pain.

I ran.

I didn't go for the door. Miller was blocking it.

I went for the window.

I smashed the glass with a heavy cast-iron skillet. I scrambled out onto the patio, cutting my hands on the shards.

"Get her!" Miller shouted.

I ran across the lawn. The grass was wet, slippery. I heard heavy footsteps behind me.

I reached the fence. I vaulted over it, landing hard on the pavement of the neighbor's driveway.

I didn't stop. I ran until my lungs burned. I ran until I found a spot with a signal.

I looked at the text again.

Under the photo, Sarah had written a message.

*She didn't ask for help. She gave me a lead.*

*The father isn't unknown, Elena.*

*She wrote a name on the back.*

I zoomed in on the second photo Sarah had sent.

The back of the birth certificate. A single name, written in blood.

*Arthur.*

My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn't just a secret baby. It was incest. Or worse.

Arthur was the father of his own grandson.

And he had buried him alive.