Chapter 7 - THE FIRE
Smoke poured through the vents.
Hannah coughed.
Vincent broke her restraints.
“Basement exit!”
We moved.
Julian grabbed Grace.
I covered the rear.
Claire disappeared into the smoke.
“Where is she?”
“Forget her,” Julian shouted.
We reached the basement.
The exit door wouldn't open.
Locked.
Vincent pulled a crowbar.
“Stand back.”
He struck the mechanism.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
The smoke grew thicker.
Grace began crying.
Julian pressed her against his chest.
“It's okay.”
I looked at my brother.
“You know what you're doing.”
He glanced at me.
“What?”
“With her.”
His eyes softened.
“I've had nine months to learn.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Then the door exploded inward.
Fresh air rushed through.
We escaped into the forest behind the estate.
Fire consumed the mansion.
My home.
My family's history.
Everything burned.
Julian stared at the flames.
“My father's house.”
I stood beside him.
“It's not our home anymore.”
He looked at me.
“No.”
He looked down at Grace.
“Maybe this is.”
A helicopter appeared overhead.
We froze.
A spotlight swept across the trees.
Vincent shouted:
“DOWN!”
Bullets struck the ground.
We ran.
Julian handed Grace to me.
“Take her!”
“What?”
“Go!”
“I won't leave you.”
“You have to.”
He turned back.
I grabbed his arm.
“We've spent eighteen months apart.”
He looked at me.
“I won't lose you again.”
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Vincent yelled:
“NOW!”
We ran.
Behind us, Julian fired toward the helicopter.
The aircraft pulled away.
Silence returned.
We hid inside an abandoned hunting cabin.
Hannah collapsed onto the floor.
Grace slept against my chest.
I stared at the baby.
Then at Julian.
“We need to get her somewhere safe.”
“There is nowhere safe.”
“Then we make somewhere.”
He smiled faintly.
“That's what Dad used to say.”
Vincent entered.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
He placed a newspaper on the table.
The headline made my blood freeze.
CARUSO HEIR KILLED IN HOUSE FIRE.
Below it was a photograph.
Mine.
“They're telling the world I'm dead.”
Vincent nodded.
“Which means whoever controls the media controls the narrative.”
I looked at Julian.
“So we're ghosts.”
“Exactly.”
Hannah suddenly pointed at the newspaper.
“Wait.”
She touched the photograph.
“That's not today.”
“What?”
“Look at the clock behind you.”
I examined it.
The photograph had been taken hours earlier.
Before the fire.
Someone had planned the story before we even knew the house would burn.
Which meant the fire wasn't the beginning.
It was the next step.
I turned toward Vincent.
“How long have they been planning this?”
He looked at me.
“Years.”
My phone buzzed.
One message.
A photograph.
Grace sleeping in my arms.
Taken inside the cabin.
My blood ran cold.
Below it:
YOU CAN RUN.
Another message arrived.
BUT YOUR NIECE CAN'T.
Then:
MIDNIGHT. CHICAGO.
May you like
And finally:
COME ALONE.
