Road Trip

Sarah’s phone chimed with the notification before they even merged onto the southbound lane of I-91. *Location shared with Julian.*

Maya’s phone.

Sarah swerved, narrowly missing a semi-truck, and snatched the device from her daughter’s hand. "I told you to turn it off."

"I did!" Maya cried, shrinking back. "I turned it off in the motel. I haven't touched it."

Sarah looked at the screen. The GPS wasn't just active; it was broadcasting a live beacon. And the recipient wasn't just *Julian*. It was *Julian_Admin*.

Caleb. Or whoever had his phone.

"It’s not you," Sarah said, tossing the phone into the backseat next to the burner laptop. "It’s a remote activation. Elena has a backdoor into your cloud account."

"So she knows where we are?"

"She knows where your phone is," Sarah said. "And she thinks we're heading to Vermont."

She took the next exit, pulling into a rest stop crowded with sleeping trucks.

"We need a new car," Sarah said. "And we need to get rid of the electronics."

"Mom, we can't just steal a car," Maya said, her voice high with panic.

"We're not stealing it," Sarah said. She reached into her purse and pulled out the roll of cash Robert had given her. "We're trading."

She walked up to a beat-up Honda Civic parked near the restrooms. A young couple was arguing inside, the dome light illuminating their tired faces.

Sarah tapped on the window. The man rolled it down, annoyed. "What?"

"I'll give you five thousand dollars for this car," Sarah said. "Cash. Right now."

The man stared at her. "You serious?"

"Dead serious. But I need it now. And I need you to take my car."

Ten minutes later, Sarah was behind the wheel of the Honda, the interior smelling of vanilla air freshener and old french fries. Maya sat beside her, clutching the red diary like a holy relic.

They left the Volvo, the phones, and the burner laptop in the parking lot. Sarah had set the GPS on Maya’s phone to a destination in Stowe, Vermont, then hidden it under the spare tire of a long-haul truck headed north.

"She'll follow the signal," Sarah said, merging back onto the highway, this time heading south. "By the time she realizes we're not on that truck, we'll be at the estate."

"But the estate is locked down," Maya said. "You said there are guards."

"There are," Sarah said. "But they're watching the gates. They're not watching the river."

They drove in silence for an hour, the tension in the car thick enough to choke on. Sarah’s mind raced, replaying the layout of the Hawthorne Estate. The nursery was on the second floor, in the east wing. It had been sealed off since 1990, a shrine to the dead Julian. Elena never went in there. She said it was too painful.

But maybe it wasn't pain that kept her out. Maybe it was preservation.

They reached the outskirts of the estate just before dawn. Sarah parked the Honda in the woods, a mile from the property line. They walked the rest of the way, following the deer trails Sarah had run as a child.

The river that bordered the estate was calm, the mist rising off the water like ghosts. Sarah found the old boathouse, a crumbling stone structure half-swallowed by ivy.

"The service entrance is behind this," Sarah whispered. "It leads to the wine cellar."

"I thought we weren't going to the wine cellar," Maya whispered back.

"We're not staying there," Sarah said. "We're just passing through."

She pried the heavy wooden door open. It groaned, the sound swallowed by the rushing water. Inside, it was dark and damp. Sarah clicked on her flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom.

Rats scurried into the corners. But Sarah wasn't looking at the floor. She was looking at the wall.

There, hidden behind a rotting tapestry, was a keypad.

"Dad installed this," Sarah said. "For deliveries. Elena hated seeing the workmen."

She punched in the code. *1114.*

The wall clicked. A section of stone swung inward.

They slipped inside. The air was cool and smelled of oak and vintage grapes. They were in the wine cellar.

Sarah moved quickly, leading Maya up the narrow service stairs. They came out in the pantry, the stainless steel appliances gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the windows.

The house was silent.

"Where is everyone?" Maya whispered.

"Asleep," Sarah said. "Or guarding the perimeter."

They crept through the kitchen, into the main hall. The grand staircase loomed ahead, a shadow stretching up into the darkness.

Sarah started to climb. The stairs creaked. She froze.

Nothing happened.

They reached the second floor. The hallway stretched out in both directions, lined with portraits of ancestors who would have been horrified by the woman currently running their legacy.

The nursery door was at the end of the hall. It was painted a soft, pale blue.

Sarah tried the handle. Locked.

She reached into her pocket for the lockpick set she had taken from the cabin. It took her three tries, her hands shaking, but finally, the tumbler clicked.

She pushed the door open.

The room was exactly as she remembered it. The crib in the corner. The rocking horse. The mobile hanging from the ceiling, dusty and still.

But there was something else.

A hum. Low and steady.

It was coming from the closet.

Sarah walked over to the closet door. It was padlocked.

"Mom," Maya said, tugging on her sleeve. "Look."

She pointed to the floor. There was a power cord running under the door. A thick, industrial-grade cable.

Sarah used the tire iron from the Honda to smash the padlock. One blow. Two. It fell away.

She opened the door.

Inside, the closet had been gutted. The shelves were gone. In their place was a single, large appliance.

A chest freezer.

The hum was louder now. The green power light stared at them like an unblinking eye.

Sarah reached for the handle.

"Don't," Maya whispered.

"I have to know," Sarah said.

She lifted the lid.

The cold air hit her face, a cloud of vapor rising into the room.

It wasn't empty. And it wasn't full of food.

It was full of racks. Metal racks, holding rows of small, plastic vials.

Samples.

Sarah picked one up. The label was handwritten in Elena's script.

*Subject: Chloe. Year 4.*

She picked up another.

*Subject: Caleb. Year 2.*

And another.

*Subject: Julian. Year 1.*

She wasn't just hoarding memories. She was hoarding genetic material.

"Why?" Maya asked, her voice trembling. "Why would she keep this?"

"Because," a voice said from the doorway. "Insurance is expensive."

Sarah spun around.

Elena was standing there. She wasn't in Vermont. She was here.

And she wasn't alone.

Standing behind her, looking tired but resolute, was Dr. Thorne.

"You should have gone north, Sarah," Elena said, stepping into the room. "The view is lovely this time of year."

She gestured to the freezer.

"Close it," she said. "Or Dr. Thorne will demonstrate what happens when the power goes out on a life support system."

Sarah looked at the doctor. He was holding a syringe.

"It's over," Sarah said. "We have the diary. We have the will. We have Caleb."

"Caleb is a fugitive," Elena said. "And the diary is ashes in a river in Vermont. My team intercepted the truck an hour ago."

Sarah’s heart stopped. "Robert?"

"Collateral damage," Elena said breezily. "Now. The freezer. Close it."

Sarah looked at Maya. Then at the freezer.

She slammed the lid shut.

"Good," Elena said. "Now, Dr. Thorne. Please give Sarah her medication. She's clearly having an episode."

Thorne stepped forward.

Sarah gripped the tire iron. "Come near me, and I'll break your arm."

"Do it," Elena said. "And I'll turn off the ventilation in the bunker. I believe your friend Marcus is still down there?"

Sarah froze. They had found the bunker.

"Checkmate," Elena whispered.

But then, a sound cut through the silence. A high-pitched, electronic wail.

It wasn't the freezer. It wasn't an alarm.

It was Maya’s phone. The one Sarah had hidden on the truck.

Elena frowned. She pulled her own phone out of her pocket.

"Why is the signal moving south?" she muttered.

Sarah smiled.

"Because," she said, raising the tire iron. "I didn't put it on a truck to Vermont. I put it on a delivery van. To the Hartford Sentinel."

Elena’s face went white.

"The press isn't in Vermont, Elena," Sarah said. "They're at the front gate. And they're live streaming."