Casserole Diplomacy

The fall was supposed to be a metaphor.

But the wet, meaty *thud* of Julian hitting the concrete maintenance ledge wasn't a metaphor. It was physics. It was biology. It was the sound of a human body breaking against a reality it hadn't accounted for.

I stood on the edge of the glass abyss, my toes curling over the fracture line. Below me, in the dark, Julian groaned.

It wasn't a scream. It was worse. It was the sound of a man realizing he was mortal.

The wind howled up from the ocean, carrying the smell of salt and the iron tang of blood. My blood. His blood. It was all mixed together now, a cocktail of violence served on a shattered platter.

I looked back at the living room.

The guests were frozen. A tableau of wealth and horror. The woman in the red dress had her hands over her mouth. The Minister of Culture was staring at the hole in the floor as if it were a piece of avant-garde art he didn't quite understand.

But Santos...

Santos was moving.

He wasn't running away. He was running toward me.

And he had his gun out.

"Don't move!" he shouted, leveling the weapon at my chest.

I looked at him. At the badge on his uniform. At the fear in his eyes.

He wasn't arresting a criminal. He was silencing a witness.

"He fell!" someone screamed. "Oh my god, he fell!"

"Stay back!" Santos yelled at the crowd. "She's dangerous!"

He was right. I was dangerous.

I was the most dangerous thing in the room because I had nothing left to lose.

I looked down at the ledge. At Julian's broken body. At the keys glinting in his pocket.

The keys to the van. The keys to the gate.

The keys to my life.

I didn't think. I didn't plan.

I jumped.

It was ten feet down. A suicide drop for anyone else. But I had spent three years learning how to fall without breaking. I landed in a crouch, absorbing the impact with my thighs, ignoring the scream of protest from my injured shoulder.

Glass crunched under my bare feet.

Julian looked up at me. His face was a ruin of pain and shock. His leg was twisted beneath him like a discarded doll's.

"Elena," he wheezed. "Help me."

"Help you?" I asked, stepping over him. "I'm the one who cut the string, Julian."

I knelt beside him. He flinched, expecting another blow.

I didn't hit him. I reached into his pocket.

"No," he gasped, trying to grab my wrist. His grip was weak, trembling. "No, please."

I slapped his hand away. I dug into his pocket.

My fingers closed around the cold metal of the keys. And the phone.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You can't," he sobbed. "You can't leave me here."

I stood up. I looked down at him. At the man who had bought me, caged me, erased me.

"I'm not leaving you," I said. "I'm leaving us."

Above us, Santos appeared at the edge of the hole. He aimed the gun down.

"Elena!"

I didn't look up. I ran.

Along the ledge. Toward the service ladder.

A bullet sparked against the concrete inches from my foot.

I grabbed the rungs. I climbed.

My shoulder burned. My hands slipped on the cold iron. But I pulled myself up, hand over hand, fueled by a rage that felt like rocket fuel.

I reached the top. The garden.

The night air hit me like a slap. Humid. Heavy with the scent of hydrangeas and expensive perfume.

I ran.

Through the bushes. Toward the service gate.

The van was there. White. Nondescript. The perfect getaway car for a ghost.

I fumbled with the keys. My hands were shaking.

*Beep.*

The locks disengaged.

I threw the door open. I climbed into the driver's seat.

And then I saw him.

In the passenger seat.

Kieran.

He was slumped against the window, his face pale, his shirt soaked in blood.

"Kieran!"

He opened his eyes. They were glassy, unfocused.

"Hey, boss," he whispered. "Took you long enough."

"You're hurt," I said, reaching for him.

"Just a scratch," he lied. "Drive."

I looked at the house. At the lights. At the figure of Santos running across the lawn.

I jammed the key into the ignition.

The engine roared.

I slammed it into gear. I floored it.

The van surged forward, tires spinning in the gravel. We careened out of the gate, fishtailing onto the road.

I drove.

Down the winding cliff road. Fast. Too fast.

The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating flashes of rock and sea.

"Where are we going?" Kieran asked, his voice weak.

"The port," I said. "The ferry."

"It's gone," he said. "Last one left an hour ago."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"I checked the schedule," he said. "We missed it."

I slammed my hand against the steering wheel.

"Damn it!"

"Pull over," Kieran said.

"What?"

"Pull over. By the old lighthouse."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

I pulled over. The van skidded to a halt on the gravel shoulder. The lighthouse loomed above us, a dark finger pointing at the sky.

"Under the seat," Kieran said.

I reached under the passenger seat.

A bag. Heavy. Canvas.

I pulled it out.

"Open it," he said.

I unzipped the bag.

Inside was a stack of cash. Thick wads of Euros.

And passports.

Two of them.

And a gun.

I looked at Kieran.

"You were planning this," I said.

He managed a weak smile. "I'm a criminal, remember? Always have an exit strategy."

He coughed. Blood flecked his lips.

"The boat," he said. "Paulo. He owes me."

"Paulo?"

"The fisherman," Kieran said. "He's waiting at the cove. He'll take us."

I looked at him. At the blood seeping through his shirt.

"You're losing too much blood," I said.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Just get us to the boat."

I started the van again.

We drove to the cove.

It was a rough track, barely a road. The van bounced and rattled. Kieran groaned with every bump.

We reached the bottom.

A small fishing boat was bobbing in the water. An old man was standing on the deck, smoking a cigarette.

Paulo.

He saw the van. He waved.

I helped Kieran out. He leaned heavily on me. He was cold. Too cold.

"Come on," I said. "Almost there."

We stumbled across the sand.

Paulo helped us onto the boat. He looked at Kieran, then at me. He didn't ask questions. He just nodded and started the engine.

The boat chugged out of the cove. Into the open ocean.

I sat on the deck, holding Kieran's hand.

The island receded behind us. The lights of the House of Mercy were just a distant glow on the cliff.

Gone.

I looked at Kieran. His eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow.

"Kieran?"

"Still here," he whispered.

"We made it," I said.

"Yeah."

He squeezed my hand.

"Len?"

"Yeah?"

"The boy," he said. "Lucas."

"What about him?"

"He's not just Julian's son," Kieran said.

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

Kieran opened his eyes. He looked at me, and I saw a truth in them that terrified me more than the glass floor.

"He's Sofia's son," he said. "But he's not Julian's."

My stomach dropped.

"Who?" I asked.

Kieran closed his eyes again. A tear leaked out from under his lid.

"Me," he whispered.

I stared at him.

"You?"

"We... we fell in love," he said. "Before. When she was scared. When she wanted to leave."

He took a ragged breath.

"Julian found out. That's why he killed her. That's why he kept the boy."

He gripped my hand tight.

"He kept him to punish me, Len. To make me watch my own son grow up in a cage."

I looked at the water. At the dark, endless ocean.

It wasn't just a trophy collection.

It was a torture chamber.

"We'll find him," I said. "I promise."

Kieran nodded. His grip loosened.

"Good," he whispered.

"Rest now," I said.

He didn't answer.

I checked his pulse.

It was faint. Thready.

But it was there.

I looked at the horizon. The first hint of dawn was bleeding into the sky. Grey. Cold.

We were free.

But we weren't safe.

I touched the phone in my pocket. Julian's phone.

I took it out.

I unlocked it.

I opened the photos app.

I scrolled.

Past the photos of the house. Past the photos of me.

To the end.

A video.

Timestamped two days ago.

I pressed play.

The camera was shaky. Walking down a hallway. Stone walls. Low ceiling.

*The Catacombs.*

A door.

A heavy steel door with a keypad.

The hand—Julian's hand—punched in a code.

*10-24-88.*

The door opened.

A room. Small. Windowless.

A bed. A table.

And a girl.

Sitting on the bed.

She looked up at the camera.

She had dark hair. Pale skin.

And eyes that were exactly like mine.

"Hello, Beatriz," Julian's voice said from behind the camera. "Say hello to your new mommy."

The video ended.

I stared at the black screen.

Beatriz.

The name on the ID card. The woman who "left."

But the girl in the video...

She wasn't a woman.

She was a child.

Maybe eight years old.

The same age I was when my mother gave me away.

I dropped the phone.

It clattered onto the deck.

I looked at Kieran. He was unconscious now.

I looked at the ocean.

I thought I knew the truth.

I thought I knew the monster.

But I was wrong.

I hadn't just found a graveyard.

I had found a nursery.

And I had left one behind.

I stood up. I walked to the bow of the boat. The wind whipped my hair across my face.

I wasn't going to Tangier.

Not yet.

I turned to Paulo.

"Turn around," I said.

He looked at me, confused. "Senhora?"

"Turn around," I said, my voice hard as diamond. "We have to go back."

"Back?"

"Yes," I said.

I picked up the gun from the bag.

I checked the clip.

Full.

"I forgot something," I said.

I looked at the island. At the dark silhouette of the cliffs.

"I forgot to burn the rest of it down."