Sarah's Call

The passport felt heavy in Claire's hand, heavier than the gold bars beneath it. *Thomas Vance*. The photo was David’s face, but younger, softer. It wasn't just a forgery; it was an invitation.

"He wanted me to leave," David whispered, staring at his own face under a different name. "He wanted me to disappear."

"He wanted you to be free," Aris corrected. "He knew Arthur would never let David go. But Thomas? Thomas was already dead. Thomas could go anywhere."

David picked up one of the gold bars. It was stamped with a Swiss bank seal.

"This is millions," he said. "More than enough to buy a new life."

"And more than enough to buy access to Willow Creek," Claire said. She took the bar from him, her mind already calculating the logistics. "We don't need a new life, David. We need to save the one we have."

She put the bar in the duffel bag.

"We take what we need," she said. "We leave the car. It's too conspicuous."

They drove north, leaving the city behind. The rain had turned to a wet snow, slicking the roads and blurring the world into shades of gray.

Claire sat in the passenger seat, the gold weighing down the bag at her feet. She thought of Silas. The man who had played both sides, who had built a trap for Arthur and a safety net for David. He was a monster, yes. But a monster who loved his creation.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a blocked number.

Claire stared at it. Marcus was dead. Silas was dead. Arthur was dead. Who was left to call?

She answered.

"Hello?"

"Claire?"

The voice was whisper-thin, terrified.

"Sarah?" Claire asked, gripping the phone. "Sarah, where are you?"

"I... I don't know," Sarah stammered. "I'm in a room. It's dark. The girls are sleeping."

"Are you safe?"

"I think so. The men... they left. After the news report. They saw that Silas was dead."

"Stay there," Claire said. "Don't move. We're coming for you."

"Claire," Sarah said, her voice dropping lower. "I found something. In Mom's jewelry box. The one I took from the house before the fire."

"What is it?"

"It's a letter," Sarah said. "To you."

"To me?"

"It's dated 1992," Sarah said. "From Evelyn."

Claire felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow.

"Read it," she said.

"I can't," Sarah said. "It's sealed. It says 'For Claire, when she is ready.'"

"When she is ready?" Claire repeated. "I wasn't even in the family in 1992. I was twelve years old."

"I know," Sarah said. "That's why I'm scared."

She paused.

"Claire