Chapter 44: The Confrontation with Thorne

"Mark?" I repeated, the name hitting me like a physical blow. "Why Mark?"

"Because he's the loose end," Thorne said, his voice trembling. "Leo is safe. He's underground. But Mark... Mark knows things. He found the ledger in the greenhouse. Edith saw him."

I looked at Ben. His face had gone ashen. Mark was his nephew. Alice's son. The boy Edith had stolen and raised as a prop.

"We have to get to the lake house," Ben said, grabbing Thorne by the collar of his uniform. "Where is it?"

"It's north," Thorne gasped. "Near the border. But you'll never make it in time. She has a head start."

"We'll make it," I said. "We have to."

We dragged Thorne out of the club, ignoring the stares of the patrons. Vance had already vanished, a cockroach fleeing the light.

We piled into Ben's truck. I drove this time, my foot heavy on the gas.

"Tell me about the lake house," I said to Thorne, who was huddled in the back seat. "Is there security?"

"No," Thorne said. "It's off the grid. No cameras. No staff. It's where she goes when she needs to... handle things."

"Handle things," I repeated. "Like my mother?"

Thorne flinched. "Edith didn't kill Maria at the lake house. She did it at the clinic. But the lake house... that's where she took the babies. To wait for the paperwork."

"The staging area," Ben said.

We drove for two hours, the city lights fading into the blackness of the forest. The road turned to gravel, then to dirt.

"There," Thorne said, pointing to a break in the trees. "Turn left."

I killed the headlights. We rolled down the narrow track, the tires crunching softly on the pine needles.

The cabin was small, dark wood against the darker trees. A single light burned in the window.

And parked in front was the black SUV.

"She's here," I whispered.

We got out of the truck. The air was cold, smelling of pine and damp earth.

"Ben, take the back," I said. "Thorne, you stay here. If you run, I'll hunt you down."

Thorne nodded, sinking lower in the seat. He looked broken.

I crept toward the front porch. The wood was rotten, slick with moss. I stepped carefully, testing each board.

I reached the window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a gap.

I peered inside.

The room was sparse. A fireplace, a table, two chairs.

Edith was sitting in one of the chairs. She was still wearing her trench coat, but her hair was wild, her makeup smeared. She looked like a queen whose kingdom had burned down.

And opposite her, tied to the other chair, was Mark.

He looked bad. His face was bruised, his lip split. But his eyes were defiant.

"Where is it?" Edith asked. Her voice was calm, conversational.

"I burned it," Mark said. "In the greenhouse."

"Liar," Edith said. She picked up a poker from the fireplace. "You didn't burn it. You hid it. You always were a sentimental boy. Just like your mother."

"My mother was a victim," Mark spat. "And so am I."

Edith sighed. She tapped the poker against her palm.

"You're not a victim, Mark. You're an investment that failed to mature."

She raised the poker.

I didn't wait.

I kicked the door. The lock splintered, the wood giving way with a crack that echoed like a gunshot.

"Edith!" I screamed.

She spun around, the poker still raised.

"Sarah," she said, smiling. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"Let him go," I said, stepping into the room.

"Or what?" Edith asked. "You'll sue me? You'll write a blog post?"

"I'll kill you," I said. And in that moment, I meant it.

"Such passion," Edith said. "It must be the Thorne blood. He was always dramatic."

She looked at Mark.

"He's useless to me now," she said. "The ledger is gone. The money is gone. All I have left is the family."

"We're not your family," Mark said.

"Aren't you?" Edith asked. "I fed you. I clothed you. I gave you a name. Without me, you're just the bastard son of a dead maid."

"He's Michael's son," I said.

Edith froze.

"What did you say?"

"I know," I said. "I found the letter. Michael Sterling was Mark's father. He loved Alice."

Edith's face twisted. The mask didn't just slip; it disintegrated.

"He didn't love her," she shrieked. "He used her! He was weak!"

"He loved her," I said, stepping closer. "And he loved the baby. He wanted to keep him. That's why you killed her. Not to hide the adoption. To hide the affair."

Edith swung the poker. It missed my head by inches, smashing into the doorframe.

"He was mine!" she screamed. "Michael was mine! The name was mine! The legacy was mine!"

She swung again. I dodged, but I slipped on the rug. I fell to my knees.

Edith loomed over me, the poker raised for a killing blow.

"Goodbye, Sarah," she said.

But the blow never landed.

A shape tackled her from the side. Ben. He had come through the back door.

He slammed into her, knocking her into the table. The lamp crashed to the floor, plunging the room into darkness.

"Run!" Ben yelled.

I scrambled up. In the dim light from the fireplace, I saw them wrestling on the floor. Ben was strong, but Edith was fueled by a lifetime of rage.

She kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over.

She grabbed the poker.

"No!" Mark shouted.

He threw himself—chair and all—at Edith. The wood of the chair shattered against her legs. She stumbled, falling back against the hearth.

I grabbed the gun from Mark's waistband—the one he had taken from the bunker.

"Stop!" I yelled, aiming at her chest.

Edith looked at the gun. Then at me.

She laughed.

"You won't shoot," she said. "You're too soft. Too much like Clara."

"Clara wasn't soft," I said. "She was broken. By you."

"And the baby?" Edith asked. "The one she was carrying? The one I 'saved'?"

"You didn't save anyone," I said. "You tried to kill him."

"And yet," Edith said, "he lived. Because of me."

She took a step toward me.

"Shoot her, Sarah!" Mark yelled.

My finger tightened on the trigger.

But I couldn't do it. Not like this. Not in cold blood.

Edith saw the hesitation. She smiled.

"That's what I thought."

She lunged.

But not at me.

At the window.

She crashed through the glass, tumbling out onto the porch.

"She's running!" Ben yelled, scrambling up.

We ran to the door.

Edith was sprinting toward the woods. Toward the lake.

"Let her go," I said. "The police will find her."

"No," Mark said. He was untying his ropes with shaking hands. "She's not running away."

He looked at me, his face pale in the moonlight.

"She's going to the boat house," he said. "That's where she kept the other ledger."

"The other ledger?"

"The one she didn't burn," Mark said. "The one with the account numbers. If she gets to that boat, she disappears. With the money."

I looked at the darkness of the woods.

"Then we have to stop her."