Chapter 29: The Panic

Elena waited until the house went quiet. The voices had faded downstairs, the front door closing with a heavy thud. She counted to sixty, then another sixty, her breath shallow and hot in the confined space of the chimney hatch.

She pushed the door open. The attic was empty.

She scrambled out, covered in soot, clutching the evidence to her chest. She needed to get out. She needed to get to Mia before Julianne played her trump card. *We give her the mother she thinks is dead.*

If they brought Sarah Vance back—if they produced the woman from the photo, alive and well—Mia would run straight into their arms.

Elena crawled to the window. The silver Porsche was gone.

She climbed down the pull-down stairs, wincing as they creaked. The hallway was empty. The house felt violated, searched. Drawers were open in the office. Papers were scattered on the floor.

But they hadn't found the car keys. They were still in her pocket, where she'd put them after throwing her phone away.

She ran out the back door, to the Subaru hidden by the hydrangeas. She didn't check for trackers this time. She knew it was clean.

She drove north again, faster this time. The rain had stopped, but the fog was thick, obscuring the road.

Her mind raced. If Sarah Vance was alive, where was she? She wasn't in the system. She wasn't in the obituary columns.

Unless she wasn't Sarah Vance anymore.

Elena thought about the note on the back of the cemetery deed. *Relocation complete. No questions asked. - Thorne.*

Thorne had moved a body. Or he had moved a person.

If Sarah was the photographer, she was part of the inner circle. She knew the secrets. She knew Vargas.

Why would Vargas let a witness live?

Unless she wasn't just a witness.

Elena reached Brattleboro just as the sun was breaking through the mist. She parked down the street from The Paper Trail.

The shop was dark. The *CLOSED* sign was still up.

She ran to the door and pounded on the glass. "David! Open up!"

No answer.

She tried the handle. Locked.

She ran around to the back alley, to the door that led to the apartment upstairs. It was unlocked.

"David?"

She climbed the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The apartment door was ajar.

Elena pushed it open.

"Mia?"

The apartment was empty.

The coffee mugs were still on the table, cold. David's laptop was open, the screen glowing blue.

But there was no sign of a struggle. No overturned chairs. No broken glass.

Just a note, left on the kitchen counter in Mia's handwriting.

*Mom called. She's alive. I have to go see her.*

Elena stared at the note. *Mom called.* Not Julianne. Mom.

They had gotten to her. They hadn't used force. They had used hope.

Elena grabbed the note. Underneath it was a second piece of paper. A printout of a flight itinerary.

*Passenger: Mia Vance.*
*Destination: Zurich.*
*Departure: Tonight, 9:00 PM. JFK.*

She looked at the clock. It was 4:00 PM.

She had five hours to get to New York. Five hours to stop Mia from walking into the lion's den.

Elena turned to leave, but something on the table caught her eye. David's laptop.

It was open to a search page.

*Dr. Aris Thorne. Obituary. 2015.*

David had been looking for the doctor.

Elena leaned in. The obituary was standard. *Dr. Aris Thorne, 62, passed away peacefully at his home in Tuscany.*

But David had opened a second tab. A news article from an Italian paper.

*Fire Destroys Villa. Owner Missing.*

And a third tab. A forum for conspiracy theorists discussing "The Disappeared."

David hadn't just been looking for the doctor. He had been looking for the network.

Where was David? Had he gone with Mia? Or had they taken him too?

Elena heard a sound from the street below. A car door closing.

She went to the window.

A black sedan was parked across the street. The same model as the one in the parking lot at the nursing home.

The driver was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the apartment window.

He raised a phone to his ear.

Elena’s burner buzzed in her pocket.

She answered.

"Hello, Elena," Mark's voice said. He sounded tired. Defeated.

"Where is she, Mark?"

"She's safe. She's with her mother."

"She's with a ghost you paid for!"

"She's with the woman who gave birth to her," Mark said. "Julianne isn't the mother, Elena. You got the paperwork wrong."

Elena froze. "What?"

"Julianne didn't have the baby," Mark said. "She brokered the deal. But she didn't carry the child."

Elena looked at the photo in her hand. The pregnant woman on the balcony.

"I have the photo, Mark. I have the picture of Julianne pregnant."

"Look closer," Mark said. "Look at the woman's hands."

Elena pulled the photo out. She looked at the woman's hands resting on the swollen belly.

She looked at the ring finger.

There was a ring. A unique ring. A serpent eating its own tail.

She had seen that ring before.

On the hand of the woman holding the camera in the reflection.

"It's a double exposure," Mark whispered. "A trick. Julianne wasn't the one who was pregnant. She was the one taking the picture."

"Then who..."

"Sarah," Mark said. "Sarah is real. And she's not dead. And she's waiting for Mia at the airport."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because," Mark said, his voice breaking. "If Mia gets on that plane, she's not going to Zurich. She's going to a black site in Romania. Vargas isn't waiting for an heir. He's waiting for a donor."

"A donor?"

"He's dying, Elena. He needs a bone marrow transplant. And Mia is the only match."

The line went dead.

Elena looked out the window. The man by the black sedan was still watching.

She had to get out. She had to get to JFK.

She looked at the fire escape.

"Why were you visiting Arthur Miller, Elena?"

She spun around.

Mark was standing in the doorway of the apartment. He held a gun. His hand was shaking.

"I asked you a question," he said. His voice had no emotion. "Why were you visiting the empty grave?"