Locked Out

The metal shrieked as the hairpin slid into the lock mechanism. Claire ignored the pain shooting up her arm, focusing on the click she needed to hear. The officer laughed again, his head thrown back as he looked out at the rain-slicked road.

*Click.*

The cuff sprang open.

Claire didn't move immediately. She kept her hands in her lap, feigning restraint, while her eyes scanned the car’s interior. The partition between the front and back seats was thick plexiglass, but the officer hadn’t locked the window controls. She saw the small red light on the armrest.

The car slowed as it approached the main gate of the Vance estate. The iron gates were closed, the guard shack illuminated by a harsh floodlight.

"Hold up," the officer said into his radio. "Gate's shut. I need clearance."

He rolled down his window to speak to the private security guard.

It was her chance.

Claire reached for the door handle. It was dead, just as she suspected. But the window...

She pressed the button. The glass hummed down an inch, then stopped. Child lock.

"Hey!" the security guard shouted, pointing his flashlight at her. "She's loose!"

The officer spun around, reaching for his weapon.

Claire didn't wait. She grabbed the heavy metal buckle of the seatbelt and swung it with all her strength at the side window.

The glass shattered.

She dove through the opening, shards slicing into her hands and knees as she tumbled onto the wet asphalt.

"Stop her!" the officer yelled, scrambling out of the car.

Claire scrambled to her feet and ran. Not toward the gate—it was too well-guarded—but toward the woods that bordered the estate. She knew these woods. She had walked them with the twins, pointing out deer tracks and birds' nests.

She hit the tree line just as a shot rang out, the bullet thudding into the trunk of an oak beside her.

She didn't look back. She plunged into the undergrowth, branches whipping her face, mud sucking at her boots. She ran until her lungs burned, until the shouts of the men faded into the drumming of the rain.

She circled back toward the house, approaching from the east, near the old stables. The building was dark, the windows like empty eyes staring out at the storm.

She crept toward the patio doors. Locked.

She tried the basement entrance. Locked.

She moved around to the front, hiding behind the stone lions that guarded the steps. The house was a fortress, sealed tight against her.

But there was one way in.

The keypad on the service entrance. The one the staff used.

She typed in the code: *1-9-9-3*. David’s birth year. Or rather, the year Arthur *said* he was born.

The light blinked red.

*Access Denied.*

Arthur had changed the codes.

She tried *1-9-9-2*.

Red.

She tried *1-9-9-0*. Michael Kovac’s birth year.

Red.

Panic clawed at her throat. She was trapped outside, while inside, Arthur was dismantling her life.

Then she remembered the date on the ledger. The date of the payment to Simon Vance.

*1-1-1-6.* November 16.

She typed it in.

The light blinked green.

*Click.*

The door hissed open.

Claire slipped inside, the warmth of the house washing over her like a physical blow. She was in the mudroom. It smelled of wet wool and expensive detergent.

She moved silently through the hallways, avoiding the cameras, avoiding the pools of light from the sconces. She needed to find David. She needed to find the girls.

She reached the main staircase. Voices drifted down from the second floor.

"It's done," Arthur said. His voice was calm, satisfied. "The police are handling it."

"And the girls?" David’s voice. Broken. Hollow.

"They're asleep," Arthur said. "Sarah is with them. They'll be fine, David. Children are resilient. They'll forget."

"Forget their mother?"

"They'll forget the woman who tried to destroy their family," Arthur corrected. "You need to rest, son. Tomorrow is a new day. A fresh start."

Footsteps moved away, down the hall toward the master suite.

Claire waited until she heard a door close. Then she crept up the stairs.

She didn't go to David’s room. She went to the girls' room.

The door was ajar. Inside, the nightlight cast a soft, pink glow over the twin beds.

Claire stepped inside.

The beds were empty.

The sheets were stripped. The closets were open, hangers bare.

Her children were gone.

She spun around, intending to run to David, to scream the truth until he heard her.

But the door blocked her path.

Standing in the frame was the estate's head of security. He held a taser in one hand and a radio in the other.

"I have her," he said into the radio. "She's in the nursery."

He raised the taser.

"You should have stayed in the woods, Mrs. Vance," he said. "At least out there, you were only lost. In here