David's Ultimatum

The photo wasn't of the Victorian. It was of the crumbling, detached garage sitting at the very edge of Margaret's property. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of darkness.

Sarah stared at the grainy image, her mind struggling to connect the pieces. *She didn't just visit me.* Margaret hadn't just used the mortgage to threaten David; she was actively using the hoarder property for something else. Something she didn't want inside the main house.

Sarah typed back immediately: *Meet me.*

Ten agonizing minutes later, her burner buzzed. *The old bandstand. Centennial Park. 1:00 AM.*

Sarah slipped out the back door of the abandoned house, moving quickly through the shadows of the Oakhaven residential streets. Centennial Park was a massive, wooded sprawl in the center of town, mostly abandoned after dark.

The bandstand was a decaying Victorian relic, its ornate wooden lattice peeling under the moonlight. Sarah approached cautiously, the damp grass soaking the hem of her jeans.

David was already there. He was sitting on the lowest step, entirely swallowed by the shadows, his head in his hands.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he whispered as Sarah approached. He didn't look up. "She’s going to ruin us, Sarah. She’ll take the house. She’ll put my mother in a state home."

"I’m not asking you to testify anymore, David." Sarah kept her distance, giving him room to breathe. "I just need the original logs. Elena’s handwritten notes. They’re in her private safe."

David let out a harsh, dry laugh. "You want to rob the smart-home? You think you can just walk in there and crack a biometric lock?"

"I don't need to crack Elena’s safe," Sarah said. "I need Margaret’s."

David finally looked up, his face a pale oval in the darkness.

"Elena keeps the current dosing schedule," Sarah explained, her voice low and steady. "But Margaret is the archivist. She paid Roth & Stern. She kept the invoices. She kept your bloody jacket. If Elena’s original diagnosis—the real one, not the 'recovered teen' fiction—exists anywhere, it’s in my mother’s house."

"The garage," David murmured, his eyes tracking back to the memory of the photo he’d sent.

"What was she doing in there today?"

David hesitated, his gaze darting toward the distant streetlights. "She was moving boxes. Heavy ones. But she wasn't bringing them into the house. She was taking them out of the house and locking them in the garage. And she was... she was frantic. I’ve never seen Margaret Miller look frantic."

Sarah’s pulse hammered against her ribs. Margaret was consolidating the timeline. The police presence, the emergency custody order—it wasn't just about neutralizing Sarah; it was a cover to permanently erase the history of the golden child.

"She’s moving the core files," Sarah said. "The stuff she couldn't risk burning in the yard."

"She’s been doing it since the police came looking for you," David added. "She’s preparing to abandon the house, Sarah. I heard her telling the movers. She’s moving in with Elena."

If Margaret moved into the fortress, the records would be locked behind an impenetrable wall of medical prestige and private security. Tonight was the only window.

"I need to get into that garage," Sarah said. "Before morning."

David stood up, his posture rigid. The fear radiating from him was palpable, a physical scent in the damp night air. "You can’t just walk up the driveway. She has motion sensors rigged to her phone now. She upgraded the system after you broke the padlock."

"I know the blind spots." Sarah stepped closer. "But I need a lookout. Someone who knows the neighborhood patrol routes. Someone who can warn me if she wakes up."

David took a step back, his hands rising defensively. "Sarah, I told you—"

"I have the toxicology report, David." Sarah pulled the thick, folded cardstock from her bag and held it out. "It’s a chemical coma. It’s what she did to you, but slower. If I don't get the handwritten logs to connect her to the drugs, they’ll say I did it. They’ll take Lily forever."

David looked at the paper. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking violently near the scar on his neck.

He reached out and snatched the report from her hand, his eyes scanning the dense alphanumeric codes. He didn't know the chemistry, but he knew the intent.

"Okay," David whispered, handing it back. "I’ll watch the house. I’ll keep the burner line open."

Sarah shoved the report back into her bag, relief washing over her in a cold wave.

'If you tell anyone I helped you,' David said, 'I'm a dead man.' His fear was genuine, but his eyes were evasive.