Flight

The sound of Julian’s footsteps passing beneath her was a vibration in the wood, a tremor that traveled through her spine. He was moving fast, his stride heavy and purposeful. He thought she was outside. He thought he was hunting.

Iris pressed herself into the corner of the pantry, her breath shallow. The heat from the kitchen fire was intense now, blistering the paint on the door frame. She could hear the roar of it, a hungry, consuming beast.

If he circled back... if he checked the perimeter and didn't find her... he would come back inside.

She had to move.

She stood up, testing her ankle. Pain shot up her leg, white-hot and sickening. It was bad. Maybe broken. But adrenaline was a powerful anesthetic. She limped through the pantry, past the dumbwaiter, toward the back hallway.

The smoke was thinner here, but the air was still hazy. She reached the mudroom door. Locked.

Of course.

She fumbled with the latch. Her fingers were slick with sweat and soot.

*Click.*

The door opened.

She stumbled out into the night air. The rain had stopped, but the ground was a sodden mess of mud and leaves. The cool air hit her face like a slap, clearing her head for a split second.

The house was burning.

Flames licked out of the kitchen window, illuminating the backyard in a flickering orange glow. The roof over the main section was already engulfed. It was a beacon. The fire department would be coming soon.

But Julian would be faster.

She scanned the yard. The driveway was to her left. Her car was there, blocked by Julian’s sedan.

To her right, the woods. The dense, overgrown thicket that separated the main estate from the neighboring property.

And beyond the woods, the Carriage House.

It was the only place Julian wouldn't burn. It was where he had moved his leverage. It was where Elias was.

If she could get to Elias... if she could get him out before the police arrived... she might have a chance. She might have a witness.

Without Elias, she was just an arsonist. A crazy woman who burned down her family home.

She limped toward the trees, keeping to the shadows. Her ankle screamed with every step, but she forced herself to run, a loping, uneven gait that ate up the distance.

She reached the tree line and paused, looking back.

Julian was standing in the driveway. He was looking at her car. He opened the driver's door, checking inside.

Then he turned. He scanned the yard.

The firelight caught his face. He looked calm. Methodical. He wasn't panicking. He was calculating trajectories.

He turned toward the woods.

He knew.

Iris plunged into the brush. Briars tore at her clothes, unseen branches whipped her face. She didn't stop. She pushed through the undergrowth, guided only by the faint, distant light of the Carriage House filtering through the trees.

It was half a mile. On a good day, ten minutes. With a broken ankle, in the dark, it felt like a marathon.

She slipped on a patch of wet leaves and went down hard, her knee slamming into a rock. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Get up. Get up.

She dragged herself to her feet. The woods were silent around her, save for the distant crackle of the fire.

And then, a new sound.

A snap. A twig breaking under a heavy boot.

Behind her.

She froze.

Another snap. Closer.

He was tracking her. He wasn't running. He was walking. He knew where she was going.

She pushed forward, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion. The trees began to thin. The ground leveled out.

Ahead, through a gap in the foliage, she saw it.

The Carriage House.

It was dark, save for a single light in an upstairs window. A silhouette moved past the glass. Pacing. Back and forth.

Elias.

She ran toward the only other house nearby. The Carriage House.