Regrouping

The man in the room was a ghost, a living echo of a boy who had vanished thirty years ago. He stood in the center of the rug, pacing out the dimensions of his invisible cage, his movements mechanical, ingrained. One, two, three. Turn.

Iris crouched in the hallway shadows, her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to rush in, to grab him, to shake him awake from his nightmare. But she had no weapon. No leverage. Just a broken ankle and a pocket full of circumstantial evidence.

And Julian was coming.

She backed away from the door, the floorboards groaning under her weight. Elias didn't react. He kept pacing, lost in the rhythm of his confinement.

She retreated down the stairs, her mind racing. She couldn't take him. Not like this. He was catatonic, programmed. If she tried to move him, he might scream. He might fight.

And if Julian found them both here...

She needed backup.

She slipped out the window she had forced open, dropping back into the wet rhododendrons. The pain in her ankle flared, a sickening throb that made her vision swim. She bit her knuckle to stifle a cry.

She limped through the woods, keeping the Carriage House between her and the burning main house. The glow of the fire was brighter now, painting the treetops in violent shades of orange and red. Sirens wailed in the distance, a rising chorus of alarm.

She reached the main road. It was empty, the asphalt slick with rain.

She fumbled for her phone. Still no service. The storm must have knocked out a tower, or maybe the thick trees were blocking the signal.

She started walking. Toward town. Toward the only person she could trust.

A pair of headlights cut through the darkness ahead.

Iris froze. She moved to dive into the ditch, but her leg gave way. She collapsed on the shoulder, gravel digging into her palms.

The vehicle slowed. It was a truck. An old, beat-up Ford.

It stopped. The window rolled down.

"Iris?"

It was Marcus.

He jumped out, leaving the engine running. He ran to her, his face pale in the headlights. "Jesus, Iris. I saw the fire from the highway. I thought you were inside."

"He burned it," she gasped, grabbing his jacket. "He burned the house."

"Are you hurt?" He saw her leg, the unnatural angle of her foot. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No," she said, gripping him tighter. "Not the hospital. Not yet."

She looked back toward the woods, toward the hidden lane that led to the Carriage House.

"He's alive, Marcus. And he's right next door."