Chapter 67: The Getaway

We left Vance's office in a blur of motion. The police lights were gone, replaced by the early morning bustle of a city that didn't know a monster had just walked through its gates.

Mark was driving Edith's Jaguar again, his knuckles white on the wheel. Lucia was in the back, tracking the police scanner on her phone.

"They found the car," Lucia said. "The rental we left at the lake. But no sign of the second vehicle."

"She had a contingency," I said, staring out the window. "She always has a contingency."

"Where would she go?" Ben asked. "With a baby? She can't fly. She can't cross the border."

"She doesn't need to cross the border," I said. "She has assets everywhere. Safe houses. Shell companies."

I thought about the map in the journal. The one Martha had shown me. *The Sanctuary.* That was gone. The lake house was burned. The estate was a crime scene.

But there was one property we hadn't checked. One property that wasn't on the official books.

"The clinic," I said. "Not St. Jude's. The other one. The one Thorne mentioned in his deposition."

"The private practice?" Ben asked. "I thought it closed down years ago."

"It did," I said. "But Edith bought the building. Through a holding company. *Gemini Properties.*"

Gemini. Twins.

"It's in Queens," I said. "An old brownstone. She kept it for... special procedures."

Mark swerved across three lanes of traffic, taking the exit for the Queensboro Bridge.

"If she's there," Mark said, "she's cornered."

"And dangerous," I added.

We parked two blocks away. The street was quiet, lined with old trees and older houses. The brownstone at the end of the block looked like all the others—dark brick, heavy curtains, iron bars on the windows.

But there was a light on in the basement.

Faint. Flickering.

"She's there," Lucia whispered.

We didn't have guns. We didn't have backup. We just had rage and desperation.

"Mark, stay with the car," I said. "Keep the engine running. If we come out running, we're going to need to move fast."

"I'm not staying," Mark said. "She's my... she's the woman who ruined my life. I want to see her fall."

"You're hurt," I said, pointing to his side. "You'll slow us down. Stay."

He hesitated, then nodded.

Ben, Lucia, and I moved toward the house. The front door was locked, but the basement entrance—a metal grate under the stoop—was loose. Ben pried it open.

We dropped down into a narrow hallway. The air smelled of damp concrete and old blood.

We crept forward. At the end of the hall, a door stood ajar.

I peeked inside.

It was a surgical suite. Old, dusty, but functional. A generator hummed in the corner, powering a single overhead light.

Edith was there.

She was sitting on a stool, holding the baby. Subject 12's son.

The girl—Subject 12—was strapped to a gurney. She was unconscious, an IV drip in her arm.

Edith was cooing to the baby. It was a soft, gentle sound, utterly terrifying in its normalcy.

"You're going to be so strong," she whispered. "So perfect. Just like your grandfather."

She picked up a scalpel from the tray beside her.

"What is she doing?" Lucia breathed.

"She's not just taking blood," I realized, seeing the equipment laid out on the tray. "She's taking marrow. Right now. Without anesthesia."

"We have to stop her," Ben said.

He kicked the door open.

"Edith!" I yelled.

She spun around, clutching the baby to her chest. The scalpel glinted in the light.

"You," she hissed. "How do you keep finding me?"

"Because you're predictable," I said, stepping into the room. "You always go back to the scene of the crime."

"This isn't a crime," Edith said. "This is salvation. This baby... his marrow is pure. It can save Leo."

"It will kill the baby!" I shouted. "He's too small. You'll drain him dry."

"A small price to pay," Edith said. "For the legacy."

She raised the scalpel.

"Stay back," she warned. "Or I'll cut him."

She pressed the blade against the baby's neck. A thin line of red appeared. The baby wailed.

"Edith, don't," I said, holding up my hands. "Look at him. He's just a baby. He's innocent."

"Innocence is a weakness," Edith said. "Power is the only virtue."

She looked at Lucia.

"And you," she said. "The spare. You think you're better than me? You took the money."

"I took it to stop you," Lucia said.

"Liar," Edith sneered. "You took it because you're greedy. Just like your father."

"My father was Michael Sterling," Lucia said. "And he wasn't greedy. He was trapped."

Edith's face twisted.

"Michael was mine!" she screamed.

In that moment of distraction, the girl on the gurney groaned. Her eyes fluttered open. She saw Edith holding her baby with a knife to his throat.

And she screamed.

It wasn't a scream of fear. It was a scream of primal rage.

She ripped the IV out of her arm. She tore the straps. She threw herself off the gurney, crashing into Edith.

The baby flew from Edith's arms.

I dove.

I caught him inches from the floor. He was screaming, terrifyingly loud, but alive.

Edith and the girl were a tangle of limbs on the floor. Edith still had the scalpel. She slashed wildy, catching the girl's arm.

Ben rushed forward, pulling the girl away. Lucia grabbed a tray of instruments and brought it down on Edith's head.

*Clang.*

Edith collapsed.

But she wasn't out. She was just dazed.

She looked up at us, blood trickling down her forehead.

"You can't stop it," she whispered. "The seed is planted. The legacy will continue."

"What seed?" I asked, clutching the baby.

Edith smiled. Her teeth were stained with blood.

"There's another one," she said.

"Another baby?"

"No," Edith said. "Another facility. Another nursery."

She laughed.

"Did you really think I put all my eggs in one basket?"

I stared at her. Another facility. Another set of victims.

"Where?" I demanded.

Edith's eyes rolled back in her head. She slumped to the floor, unconscious.

"We have to go," Ben said. "The police will be here any minute. Someone must have heard the scream."

"We can't leave her," Lucia said.

"We leave her for the cops," I said. "We have the baby. We have the mother."

I looked at the girl—Subject 12. She was bleeding, sobbing, reaching for her son.

I handed him to her.

"He's safe," I said.

We ran. Out the back door, into the alley, into the car.

We sped away just as the sirens began to wail.

"She said there's another one," I said, staring at the road ahead. "Another nursery."

"She's lying," Mark said. "She's trying to mess with your head."

"Maybe," I said. "But what if she's not?"

I pulled out the journal. The one Clara wrote. *Volume 3.*

I flipped to the back.

There was a list of properties. The Estate. The Hoard. The Lake House. The Sanctuary.

And one more.

*The Island.*

I looked at the coordinates.

*St. Lucia.*

"The Caribbean," I whispered. "She has an island in the Caribbean."

"That's where she was going," Ben said. "The ticket to Buenos Aires... it was a connecting flight."

I looked at my family. Exhausted. Battered. Broken.

"We can't stop," I said.

"Sarah," Mark said. "We have Leo. We have the evidence. Edith is in custody. It's over."

"Is it?" I asked. "Or is there another Sarah out there? Another Lucia? Waiting to be harvested?"

I looked at the baby in the rearview mirror, sleeping in his mother's arms.

"We go to the island," I said.

Mark groaned. Ben sighed. Lucia just nodded, her jaw set.

But as I turned the car toward the airport, my phone rang.

It wasn't Edith. It wasn't Vance.

It was the hospital.

"Ms. Sterling?" a voice said. "It's Dr. Patel."

"Is Leo okay?"

"Leo is fine," she said. "But... we have a visitor."

"Who?"

"She says she's his grandmother," Dr. Patel said. "She says her name is Martha."

I frowned. "Martha? The nurse?"

"No," Dr. Patel said. "She says her name is Martha Sterling. Archibald's wife."

I slammed on the brakes.

Archibald's wife. My grandmother.

She was supposed to be dead. She died in 1990. It was in the obituary.

"She's lying," I said.

"She has identification," Dr. Patel said. "And she has a court order. She's taking custody of Leo."