Chapter 3: Threshold of Exposure
Grant hurried back, his hand extended with the heavy brass-and-leather fob. I took it from him without a word, my eyes fixed on the rear emblem of the sedan. Morris stood a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff as a sentinel guarding a tomb. Every instinct I possessed screamed that I should walk away, go inside, let the gala begin, and pretend I had seen nothing. But the weight of the little girl's gaze burned into my back.
"Ethan," Morris said, his voice dropping the formal title, a subtle shift that carried an unspoken warning. "You don't know what you're opening."
I stopped, the key half-inserted into the manual release slot beneath the lip of the trunk. I turned my head slightly, looking at the guard through the corner of my eye. "Then enlighten me, Morris. What's inside my own car?"
Morris clamped his mouth shut, his jaw working as he weighed the cost of speaking against the cost of silence. That hesitation was all the confirmation I needed. The polished glamour of the estate—the stone fountains, the imported roses, the glowing chandeliers visible through the tall French windows—suddenly felt like a painted set propped up against an abyss.
"Grant," I said, my voice hard as iron. "Open it."
Grant swallowed hard, stepping up beside me. With a hesitant nod, he pressed the electronic release on the fob. The hydraulic struts hissed softly in the evening air, breaking the vacuum of the seal. The heavy lid lifted on smooth, oiled hinges, rising slowly to reveal the dark interior of the trunk.
The overhead garage lights caught the edge of something red inside.
I stepped closer, my heart hammering against my ribs with the heavy thud of a sledgehammer. Inside the compartment, neatly cushioned by emergency blankets, lay a woman in her thirties. Her dark red blouse was torn at the shoulder, her brown hair matted with sweat and dust. Her eyes, wide and luminous with a terror that defied description, stared straight up into mine. She parted her lips, gasping for air as if she had been drowning for hours.
May you like
I gripped the edge of the trunk, my knuckles turning white. The breath left my lungs in a sharp rush as recognition and horror collided in my chest.
I whispered, the name slipping out before I could stop it: “Heath…”
