Cordelia's Decline

The darkness in the van was absolute, a void that smelled of gasoline and old sweat. Iris lay on the cold metal floor, her hands zip-tied behind her back, her shoulder throbbing where she had landed.

Beside her, Elias was silent. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his breathing—shallow, terrified gasps that sounded like a drowning man.

"Elias?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a ghost in the dark. "I should have hit him harder."

"You saved me," Iris said. "You stopped him."

"But he still has us. He's taking us to the farm."

The farm. The place where Julian buried his mistakes.

The van lurched as it hit a pothole, throwing Iris against the wall. Pain shot through her ankle, white-hot and sickening. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

She needed to think. She needed a plan. But her mind was a fragmented mess of fear and exhaustion.

"Where is the farm?" she asked.

"Near the airfield," Elias said. "He took me there once. When I was eighteen. He showed me the hole. He said if I ever tried to leave, that's where I would go."

A hole. Not a facility. A grave.

The van slowed down, turning sharply. The tires crunched on gravel.

They were stopping.

The back doors flew open, blinding them with the glare of headlights.

"Get out," one of the guards barked.

They dragged Iris and Elias out of the van. The air was cold, smelling of pine and damp earth. They were in a clearing, surrounded by woods.

In the center of the clearing stood a small, private jet. Its engines were whining, ready for takeoff.

And beside the jet, a black SUV.

Julian got out of the SUV. His wrist was in a splint, his face pale and drawn. But his eyes were alive with a manic energy.

"Welcome to the end of the line," he said.

"You can't fly us out," Iris said, struggling against the guard's grip. "There's a flight plan. There's a record."

"Private charter," Julian said, checking his watch. "Destination: Zurich. But we're making an unscheduled stop first. Over the Atlantic."

He wasn't taking them to a facility. He was taking them to the ocean.

"Put them on the plane," Julian ordered.

The guards shoved them toward the stairs.

But then, a sound cut through the whine of the engines.

A phone ringing.

Not Julian's phone. Not the guards'.

It was coming from inside the SUV.

Julian frowned. He walked back to the car. He reached in and pulled out a phone.

Sabrina's phone. The one with the cracked screen.

He looked at it. His face changed. The manic energy vanished, replaced by a sudden, stark terror.

He answered it.

"Hello?"

He listened for a moment. Then he lowered the phone. He looked at Iris.

"Who is it?" Iris asked.

Julian didn't answer. He just stared at her, his expression unreadable.

Then he turned to the guards.

"Let them go."

The guards hesitated. "Sir?"

"I said let them go!" Julian screamed.

He threw the phone onto the tarmac. He ran for the jet.

"We're leaving," he shouted to the pilot. "Now!"

He scrambled up the stairs, disappearing into the cabin. The door slammed shut. The engines roared.

The guards looked at each other, then at Iris and Elias. They released them, backing away, confused.

The jet taxied down the runway, gathering speed. It lifted off, banking sharply into the night sky.

Iris didn't watch it go. She ran to the phone lying on the ground.

It was still connected.

She picked it up.

"Hello?" she said.

"Iris?"

It was a voice she hadn't heard in years. A voice that sounded like dry leaves rustling in the wind.

"Aunt Cordelia?"

"I told him," the old woman wheezed. "I told him I remember."

"Remember what?"

"Everything," Cordelia said. "I remember the night Sarah died. I remember the money. And I remember what he did to my son."

There was a pause. A ragged intake of breath.

"I told him to run," Cordelia wheezed. "But Julian broke his legs."