CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY
We hiked back to the cabin in silence, both of us processing what we'd seen. 

When we got back, Maddie met us at the door with her laptop. "You need to see this."

She'd pulled up a social media post from earlier that morning. A grainy photo of Hank and me hiking through the rain, clearly taken with a telephoto lens.

The caption read: "Fugitives spotted near Windemere Bay. Armed and dangerous. Report sightings to authorities immediately."

"Vincent knows we're here," I said.

"He's known all along," Hank replied grimly. " Now he's ready to move."

"Which means what?"

"Which means the timeline just accelerated. The festival is tomorrow, but Vincent might make his move tonight."

My mother stood up from her chair, face pale but determined. "Then we move tonight too. We don't wait for the festival."

"That's suicide," Jim protested. "We need the crowds, the coverage, the distraction."

"We need the element of surprise more," my mother countered. "If Vincent expects us to wait for the festival, we do the opposite."

I looked at Hank. "Can we do this tonight?"

He was quiet for a long moment, calculating the odds. Finally, he nodded.

"We can try. But it means splitting our forces even more. No backup, no safety net."

"We never had a safety net to begin with."

"True." He pulled out his phone and started making calls. "I'll get my people into position. Maddie, start your livestream equipment checks. Jim, monitor all police and emergency channels. Mrs. Hartwell, you and Elise need to gear up."

"Gear up how?" I asked.

He opened a storage closet I hadn't noticed before and pulled out equipment climbing harnesses, headlamps, waterproof bags, even a couple of guns.

"Where did all this come from?" my mother asked.

"I told you. I like to be prepared."

The rain hadn't stopped.

I stood at the cliff edge, water streaming down my face, staring at the sixty-foot drop to the sea cave below. The rope in my hands felt too thin, too fragile for what we were about to do.

"Second thoughts?" my mother asked beside me.

"About a thousand of them."

She checked the harness one more time, her fingers moving with surprising confidence. "Your aunt Sarah and I used to cliff dive here as teenagers. Stupid, reckless. Our mother would have killed us if she'd known."

"Did you ever fall?"

"Once. Broke my collarbone." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Still went back the next summer."

I looked at her in the dim light from our headlamps. Really looked at her. The gray in her hair, the lines around her eyes, the way her hands shook slightly when she thought I wasn't watching. Fifteen years of hiding had aged her in ways that went beyond years.

"Mom," I said quietly. "When this is over—"

"Let's make sure there is an 'over' first."

She clipped her harness to the rope and stepped backward off the cliff.

I watched her descend, the rope playing out through my gloved hands, counting the seconds until she reached the bottom. Forty-three seconds. Then two tugs on the rope—the signal she was safe.

My turn.

The wind hit me the moment I went over the edge. It tried to slam me against the rock face, but I kept my feet planted, walking backward down the cliff like Hank had taught me during our brief afternoon training session.

Don't look down. Watch your hands. Keep tension on the rope.

Except I did look down. I saw the ocean churning below, white foam visible even in the darkness. Saw the cave entrance, barely visible as a darker shadow in the cliff face. I saw my mother waiting, looking so small against the massive rock.

Thirty feet down, the rope slipped.

Just an inch, but enough to make my heart stop. I froze against the rock face, fingers cramping around the rope, every muscle locked tight.

"Elise!" My mother's voice barely carried over the wind. "Keep moving!"

I forced my feet to take another step down. Then another. The rope held. Twenty feet to go. Fifteen. Ten.

My mother's hands grabbed my harness as I reached the cave entrance, pulling me onto the narrow ledge. Water surged around our knees.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Define okay."

We unclipped from the rope and waded into the cave. The water was shockingly cold, taking my breath away. Our headlamps carved tunnels through the darkness, reflecting off wet stone and showing us the way forward.

The tunnel entrance was exactly where Hank said it would be. Hidden behind a rockfall that looked natural but wasn't quite. We started moving rocks, working in silence, conserving our breath.

Ten minutes of hard work cleared enough space to squeeze through. The tunnel beyond was narrow, barely shoulder-width.

"Sarah told me about this place once," my mother said as we started forward. "She found it when she was investigating the first disappearances. Thought it might be how they were moving the girls without being seen."

"Was she right?"

"I don't know. She died before she could prove it."

We walked single file through the darkness, water dripping from somewhere above us, the walls pressing in from both sides. My claustrophobia tried to kick in, but I fought it down. There was no room for panic here.

"Can I ask you something?" I said after several minutes of silence.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you ever try to contact me? In fifteen years, you could have—"

"Tried." Her voice was tight. "More times than I can count. But every time I got close, something would happen. A break-in. A threatening note. Once, someone left a photo of you outside your foster home with a red X across your face."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "They knew where I was?"

"They always knew. That was the point. As long as I stayed away, you were safe. If I came back into your life, you became a target."

"So you sacrificed fifteen years to keep me safe."

"I'd have sacrificed fifty if that's what it took."

The tunnel opened into a wider space, an underground chamber with old wooden crates stacked against the walls. I swept my headlamp across them, seeing faded labels. Canadian whiskey. Scottish gin.

"We're under Vincent's property now," my mother said, checking a hand-drawn map. "The tunnel comes up in an old pump house near the main residence."

We kept moving, following the tunnel as it curved upward. The air got fresher, less dank. Somewhere ahead, I could hear the faint hum of machinery.

The ladder up was rusted but solid. I climbed first, pressing my ear against the trapdoor at the top. Silence. I pushed it open slowly, wincing at the scrape of metal on concrete.

The pump house was exactly as my mother had described—small, dusty, filled with old equipment that probably hadn't been used in decades. A single window looked out toward Vincent's house, maybe fifty yards away.

Every light in the house was on.

"That's not normal," my mother whispered.

"No. It's not."

We crouched by the window, watching. Guards patrolled the grounds in pairs, more than Hank had counted during our reconnaissance. 

Then I saw something that made my blood freeze.

A girl. Maybe sixteen. Being led from a van to the house by two men in suits. She was stumbling, clearly drugged, and even from this distance I could see the terror on her face.

"They have someone here now," I breathed. "We're not just looking for evidence. We're looking at an active crime scene."

My mother's hand found mine in the darkness. "What do we do?"

Before I could answer, an alarm shattered the night.