Injured

Sarah gasped, choking on a mouthful of muddy water as she surfaced. The current had dragged her downstream, slamming her against a fallen log that bridged the narrow ravine. She clung to the rough bark, her fingers numb, her body screaming in protest.

Her shoulder throbbed where it had hit the rocks. A graze? A fracture? She couldn't tell. The pain was a dull roar, drowned out by the freezing cold of the stream.

She looked up.

Fifty feet above, flashlight beams cut through the rain.

"I don't see a body," one of the men shouted over the wind.

"The current took her," another voice said. "She's gone."

"Check the banks," the lead man ordered. "We need confirmation. No loose ends."

Sarah pressed herself against the log, submerging her body until only her nose and eyes were above the water line. The cold was agonizing, a thousand needles piercing her skin. She forced herself to breathe shallowly, fighting the urge to shiver.

The lights swept the water, dancing across the surface. One beam lingered on the log, then moved on.

"Clear," a voice called out. "She's halfway to the reservoir by now."

"Pack it up," the lead man said. "We have the girl. And the grandmother."

Sarah’s heart stopped.

They had Maya.

She watched as the lights retreated, disappearing into the tree line. The sound of the SUV engine faded into the distance.

She was alone.

Sarah dragged herself onto the bank, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. She collapsed in the mud, shivering violently. Her phone. The auto-upload.

She reached into her pocket.

The phone was gone.

It must have fallen out when she hit the water. Or when she was tumbling against the rocks.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."

She crawled back to the water’s edge, plunging her hands into the silt. She felt rocks, sticks, trash. But no phone.

The evidence was gone. The will was gone. And Maya was gone.

She let out a scream of pure frustration, a raw, animal sound that was swallowed by the storm.

"Sarah?"

A voice. Low. Close.

She spun around, reaching for a rock as a weapon.

A figure stepped out from behind a tree. He was wearing a heavy rain slicker, carrying a rifle.

Uncle Robert.

"Robert?" she gasped. "How did you find me?"

"I heard the shots," he said, lowering the rifle. "I was tracking the SUV. I saw the fire."

He knelt beside her, pulling a flask from his pocket.

"Drink this," he said.

Sarah took a swallow. Brandy. It burned going down, but it warmed her blood.

"They took Maya," she choked out. "And my mother."

"I know," Robert said grimly. "I saw them load the car."

"We have to go after them," Sarah said, trying to stand. Her legs buckled. Robert caught her.

"You're in no shape to fight," he said. "You're bleeding."

He shone his light on her arm. The sleeve of her shirt was torn, the fabric soaked in blood. A deep gash ran from her elbow to her wrist.

"It's just a scratch," Sarah lied.

"It's an artery if you're not careful," Robert said. He pulled a bandana from his pocket and tied it tight around her arm.

"We need a plan," he said. "We can't just charge in. Argus has a perimeter around the estate."

"They're not going to the estate," Sarah said. "They're going to the bunker."

"What bunker?"

"Elena's bolt hole," Sarah said. "My mother told me. It's in the mountains."

Robert frowned. "There are a thousand caves in these mountains, Sarah. We'll never find it."

"We don't have to find it," Sarah said. "We just have to follow the money."

She looked at Robert.

"Do you still have your police scanner?"

"In the truck," Robert said.

"Get it," Sarah said. "Elena needs power to run a bunker. Industrial generators. Fuel deliveries. If she's hiding, she's leaving a footprint."

Robert nodded. He helped her to her feet.

"You're just like your father," he said. "Too stubborn to die."

They hiked back to the access road where Robert had hidden his truck—an ancient Ford that looked like it was held together by rust and prayers.

Sarah climbed into the passenger seat. She was shivering uncontrollably now, hypothermia setting in. But her mind was clear. Cold and sharp as the water that had almost killed her.

She had lost the phone. She had lost the will.

But she remembered the image.

The photo of the will. The signature.

And something else.

In the corner of the photo, visible on the edge of the document, was a stamp.

*Notary Public: Arthur Penhaligon.*

"Arthur," Sarah whispered.

"Who?" Robert asked, starting the engine.

"Arthur Penhaligon," Sarah said. "My father's old fishing buddy. The town clerk."

"He died three years ago," Robert said. "Heart attack."

"Did he?" Sarah asked. "Or was he just another loose end?"

She looked at Robert.

"Take me to his widow," she said.

"Sarah, we need to find Maya."

"We will," Sarah said. "But we can't storm a bunker with a hunting rifle. We need leverage. And Arthur Penhaligon kept records of everything."

Robert hesitated, then put the truck in gear.

"Mrs. Penhaligon lives in town," he said. "Above the bakery."

They drove in silence, the rain drumming on the roof. Sarah leaned her head against the cool glass, fighting the darkness at the edge of her vision.

She wasn't dead.

And as long as she had breath in her lungs, Elena Vance wasn't safe.

They pulled up to the bakery at 2:00 AM. The street was deserted.

Sarah got out, ignoring the pain in her arm. She hammered on the door.

A light flickered on upstairs. A window opened.

"We're closed!" an old woman shouted down.

"Mrs. Penhaligon!" Sarah called up. "It's Sarah Jenkins. Thomas's daughter."

The window slammed shut.

A moment later, the door opened.

Mrs. Penhaligon stood there in a floral bathrobe, clutching a rolling pin. She looked at Sarah—wet, bloody, wild-eyed.

"My God," she whispered. "You look like a ghost."

"I need Arthur's ledger," Sarah said. "The one from 2015."

Mrs. Penhaligon’s face hardened.

"Arthur didn't have a ledger," she said.

"He was a notary," Sarah said. "He kept a log of every document he signed. It's the law."

"The fire took his records," the woman said. "Two days after he died. His office burned down."

"Of course it did," Sarah said bitterly. "Elena."

She turned to leave. Another dead end.

"Wait," Mrs. Penhaligon said.

She looked up and down the street. Then she pulled Sarah inside and locked the door.

"The office burned," she whispered. "But Arthur didn't keep the important ones in the office."

She led them to the kitchen. She moved a heavy sack of flour aside and pried up a loose floor tile.

Beneath it was a metal box.

"He said it was his insurance," Mrs. Penhaligon said, handing the box to Sarah. "He said if anything happened to him, I was to give this to you. But only you."

Sarah opened the box.

Inside was a leather-bound book. A notary log.

She flipped to the last page.

*November 14, 2015.*

*Last Will and Testament of Thomas Jenkins.*

*Witnessed by: Agnes Higgins.*

*Notarized by: Arthur Penhaligon.*

And clipped to the page was a carbon copy of the will itself.

Not a photo. A physical copy.

Sarah stared at it. The proof. The undeniable, legal proof that Julian was the heir. That Elena was a fraud.

"We have it," Sarah whispered.

"Now what?" Robert asked.

Sarah closed the book. Her eyes were cold.

"Now," she said, "we make a trade."