Lily’s room smelled of crayons and stale cereal; the little bed was still unmade, a single sock dangling from the pillow.
My eyes fell on the gap between the wardrobe and the wall—a sliver of paper peeking out.
Pulling the hidden notebook free, I felt the paper thud against my palm, a thin, trembling weight.
Inside, Lily’s cramped sketches were frantic: a rust‑colored van, its wheels sketched with shaky lines, the rear door yawning open.
Beside it, a crude map of the town showed streets I knew by heart, but at its edge a red X marked the old bridge—the one we cross on rainy evenings.
Her tiny hand had traced a dotted line from the cottage to that X, then circled back, as if looping a secret route.
Underneath, a half‑scribbled note read, “Grandma’s surprise. Don’t tell Dad.”
My throat tightened. The “surprise” was not a birthday party; it was a plan, and Lily was not a passive observer.
I flipped the pages faster, each drawing more ominous—doors ajar, shadows slipping behind curtains, a figure hand‑cuffed to a seat.
A chill crept up my spine as I realized the van was not a toy, but a real vehicle she’d seen, perhaps with her grandmother.
The notebook ended abruptly, the last page torn, as if someone had ripped it out in haste.
I shoved the notebook into my jacket, heart hammering, and sprinted toward the driveway.
Jet Door Open, Shadows Moving
The hallway echoed with my boots as I burst through the back door, the morning sun slanting across the gravel.
The jet’s driver’s door stood ajar, a thin line of light spilling onto the tarmac.
Inside, a dark silhouette hunched over a duffel bag, the fabric rustling as something heavy was forced inside.
I shouted, “Hey! What are you doing?” but the figure turned only enough for me to glimpse a weathered face—Margaret’s.
She didn’t answer; instead, she jerked the bag into the cargo hold and slipped a hand into the cockpit, fingers brushing the ignition switch.
Before I could reach her, the engine roared, a deafening growl that vibrated through the ground.
Margaret stepped back, her eyes glassy, and the driver—another man in a uniform—pulled the lever, sending the jet lurching forward.
The wheels spun, a plume of dust rising as the aircraft surged down the runway.
I lunged, grabbing the edge of the open door, but the metal was too smooth, the movement too swift.
“Stop! Margaret, what—” My voice was swallowed by the jet’s thunderous ascent.
She vanished into the cockpit, the door slammed shut, and the jet shot into the sky, leaving a trail of white smoke against the blue.
My breath came in ragged gasps as the reality settled: I was stranded, the only one left on the tarmac.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out, thumb trembling, and read a message from an unknown number: “If you want Mara to live, stay away from Corriston. The project ends tonight.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut—Mara was being blackmailed, and the very thing I’d risked everything for was the lever of her life.
Calling Mara
My thumb hovered over the red phone icon, heart hammering against my ribs.
