Chapter 2 - The Sound of the DoorbellThe downstairs dining room smelled of roasted garlic and heavy wine, the specific scent of Grant’s family occupying a space that belonged to us. I sat on the edge of the guest room mattress upstairs, watching the headlights sweep across the ceiling as cars pulled into the gravel drive.
My phone was still on Grant’s desk downstairs, locked behind his fingerprint, but my tablet was hidden inside the lining of my winter suitcase in the closet. It had a cellular connection that Grant did not know about. At nine o’clock, I opened a blank document and typed a single line to Marisol: Dress ruined. Arm bruised. Driver confirmed for 6:30 AM.
A soft chime blinked back within seconds. I am ready. Do not engage.
I closed the tablet, slipped it back into the suitcase, and lay down fully clothed. Every muscle in my body felt tight, strung like wire before a storm. Below me, I heard Grant’s voice booming over the chatter, explaining to his uncle that my little organization was winding down anyway because family had to come first.
A sharp knock rapped against the bedroom door.
“Elena,” Beverly’s voice cut through the wood. “Your uncle wants to toast your pregnancy. Come down.”
“I’m sleeping,” I called back.
“You can sleep when the guests leave. Get up.”
The door handle turned, but the deadbolt held. Grant had installed it from the outside two weeks ago to “keep the draft out,” though the bedroom had no draft. Now, the heavy brass latch clicked uselessly against the frame.
Silence fell outside the door for three long seconds. Then Beverly’s footsteps retreated down the hall.
I did not sleep that night. I watched the digital clock change numbers, minute by minute, until the blue light turned to gray dawn. At six o'clock, the house was dead silent. I rose, washed my face, and pulled on a dark wool turtleneck and wide-legged trousers—the only professional outfit left untouched in the back of my closet.
At exactly six-twenty-eight, a low horn sounded from the end of the long gravel drive. A sleek black sedan idled by the mailbox, its hazard lights blinking twice.
I slipped out the side French doors, stepping carefully onto the dew-soaked lawn so my shoes wouldn't crunch on the gravel. The morning air was sharp, biting into my lungs as I pulled the heavy wool coat tight across my stomach.
The car door opened before I reached it. A young woman with short dark hair and a serious expression stepped out, taking my small overnight bag from my hand.
“Are you Elena Vance?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I whispered, glancing back at the dark, silent house.
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“I’m Sarah. Marisol sent me. Let’s get in.”
The door clicked shut, sealing out the cold, and the car smoothly accelerated down the winding road, away from the life Grant and Beverly had built to cage me.
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