The Door

The truck careened onto the highway, the heavy drum of the mixer spinning behind us like a centrifuge. I clung to the dashboard, Margaret pressed against my side, her breathing ragged.

"Where are we going?" she asked. Her voice was thin, but her eyes were clear. The adrenaline had burned through the sedation.

"My sister's place," I said. "It's off the grid. Solar power. Well water. Arthur doesn't know about it."

The driver, a kid named Leo who looked barely old enough to shave, glanced in the rearview mirror.

"We have a tail," he said. "Black SUV. No plates."

I turned. Headlights cut through the darkness behind us. Miller's men.

"Can you lose them?" I asked.

"In a cement mixer?" Leo laughed nervously. "Not likely, ma'am. This thing tops out at sixty."

"Then we need to get off the highway," I said. "Take the next exit. The quarry road."

"The quarry?" Leo asked. "That's a dead end."

"It's not," I said. "There's an old service road that connects to the county line. Arthur used it to dump... waste."

Leo looked at me, understanding dawning in his eyes. He spun the wheel.

The truck lurched onto the exit ramp. The SUV followed, closing the distance.

We hit the dirt road. The truck bounced violently, the suspension groaning. Margaret cried out as her head hit the window.

"I'm sorry," I said, putting my arm around her. "Just hold on."

The SUV was right on our bumper now. A spotlight flared from its roof, blinding us.

"They're going to ram us!" Leo shouted.

*CRUNCH.*

The impact threw us forward. The truck skidded, gravel spraying.

Leo fought the wheel. "I can't hold it!"

"The drum!" I shouted. "Release the load!"

"What?"

"Dump the concrete!" I screamed. "Do it!"

Leo slammed his hand onto a lever.

The drum groaned. The chute opened.

Tonnes of wet, heavy concrete poured onto the road behind us.

The SUV hit the sludge. Tires spun. The front end dipped, plowing into the gray muck. It slewed sideways, crashing into the embankment.

We roared away into the night.

We drove for another hour, winding through back roads until we reached the small A-frame cabin deep in the woods.

My sister, Kate, met us at the door with a shotgun. She didn't ask questions. She just looked at Margaret, at the blood on my shirt, and ushered us inside.

She gave us tea. Blankets. A burner phone.

Margaret sat by the fire, shivering. I sat next to her, holding her hand.

"He killed him," she whispered. "My baby. He put him in the wall."

"I know," I said. "I saw the plans."

"He was perfect," she said, tears streaming down her face. "He had Arthur's eyes. But he had my heart."

She looked at me.

"You have to stop him, Elena. You have to destroy him."

"I will," I said. "I have the ledger. I have the proof."

"It's not enough," she said. "Arthur owns the judges. He owns the DA. He'll bury the evidence just like he buried my son."

"Then what do we do?"

"We don't use the law," she said. Her voice hardened, the steel returning to her spine. "We use his ego."

"The gala," I said.

"The Memorial Gala," she corrected. "Tomorrow night. He's dedicating the new wing of the children's hospital in my name."

She stood up. She walked to the window and looked out at the dark forest.

"He wants a ghost?" she said. "I'll give him a resurrection."

She turned back to me.

"But first," she said. "I need to get into the tower."

"The tower?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because Arthur didn't just bury my son in the foundation," she said. "He buried the only thing that can prove who the father really is."

"DNA?" I asked.

"No," she said. "The locket. I put it in the blanket with him. It has a lock of Arthur's hair. From when we were first married."

I stared at her.

"You want to dig up the body?"

"I want to bring him home," she said.

"Margaret," I said. "The tower is finished. The foundation is under fifty stories of steel and glass. We can't just dig it up."

"We don't have to," she said. "There's an access tunnel. For maintenance. It leads right to the void."

"How do you know?"

"Because I designed it," she said.

She walked over to the table where I had laid out the contents of my bag. She picked up the ledger. She picked up the key from the cannon.

"I didn't just bankroll the company, Elena," she said. "I was the architect. Arthur was just the face."

She looked at the key.

"This doesn't just open the safe," she said. "It opens the maintenance hatch."

"Where is the hatch?"

"In the basement of the tower," she said. " behind the boiler room."

"Security will be tight," I said.

"Not in the basement," she said. "Not tomorrow night. All the security will be at the gala on the top floor."

She looked at me. Her eyes were burning.

"We go in during the speeches," she said. "We get the locket. And then we crash the party."

I looked at her. At the woman I had mourned for ten years. The woman I had thought was a victim.

She wasn't a victim.

She was a general.

"Okay," I said. "We do it."

I looked at the clock. 3:00 AM. Friday.

The day of the gala.

The day of the resurrection.

But first, we had to rob a grave.