Outside the abandoned building
5:30PM
Elena's POV
The drive felt both endless and far too short.
As Sebastian drove through winding roads and fading scenery, the smells of earth, rain-soaked trees, and damp wind filled the car but none of them could drown out the single, clawing need inside my chest: to hold Evan. To bury my face in his hair, feel the small, warm weight of him against me, and know he was safe.
Sebastian's low voice finally cut through the haze.
"Master, we're here."
I didn't wait for the car to come to a complete stop. My fingers were already on the handle when Alexander's hand closed gently—but firmly—around my wrist.
I turned.
His pupils were blown wide, the usual cold blue eyes swallowed by something raw and unguarded. His lips parted, but the words seemed to die somewhere between his throat and his tongue. He searched my face like he was memorizing it, like he might never get another chance.
"Elena, I just wanted to say…"
He faltered. Swallowed. Then released me without finishing.
I didn't have time to decipher whatever he'd left unsaid. I shoved the door open and stepped out into the open.
Ahead, red and blue lights flashed against the cracked walls of the abandoned building. Police cruisers formed a jagged perimeter around the abandoned building. And there, at the entrance, stood the woman from my vision: red hair cut in a sharp bob, strange choice of makeup and in her arms—my son.
My knees nearly buckled.
"Elena, careful," Seraphina appeared at my side, voice low and urgent. "The police have the perimeter locked. She's not getting out."
A uniformed officer glanced over his shoulder, weapon still trained on the masked figure.
"Ma'am, stay back. We've got this under control."
Before I could respond, a sharp, shrill voice cut through the air.
"Miss Elena?! Is that you?"
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard that I felt numb.
The woman lifted a small, clear vial in a mocking toast, the liquid inside glistening in the light.
"My mistress sends her best wishes."
"Release the child! Hands behind your head! Now!" The megaphone command cracked like thunder.
Time stood still.
One heartbeat the woman flashed a toothy grin. The next she tipped the vial to her lips and drank it. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the concrete.
She released Evan.
"Mummy!"
His small voice cracked the world open.
I ran.
He ran.
We crashed into each other halfway across the broken lot. I dropped to my knees, arms closing around him so tightly I felt every fragile rib, every frantic heartbeat. Tears burned down my cheeks and soaked his hair.
"Baby… Mommy missed you so much. So much."
"I missed Mommy too," he whispered, voice muffled against my shoulder.
Before us, the woman clutched her throat with both hands. Foam spilled from the corners of her mouth. She staggered, coughed once—a wet, choking sound—and bright arterial blood sprayed across the front of her crimson robes. Then she folded, knees first, and was still.
I scooped Evan into my arms and stumbled away as officers swarmed the body.
****
9:00PM
Hours later, after giving my statement in a too-bright interview room that smelled of stale coffee and gun oil, I sat in the back of a police cruiser with Evan asleep against my chest.
The doctor at the station clinic had been brisk: no injuries, no signs of assault, just a frightened little boy who needed rest and a multivitamin script.
I should have felt relief.
Instead, cold dread coiled tighter with every mile the car ate up.
"My mistress sends her best wishes."
The phrase looped in my skull like a curse.
Was this Redwood? A warning wrapped in blood? Withdraw Evan from the school, let his golden son take first place, clear the path for the man who would do anything to cement his political dynasty?
Or was it someone else entirely—someone who knew far more about me than I'd ever wanted to believe?
The cruiser rolled to a gentle stop outside my house.
"Thank you, officer," I murmured, easing Evan's sleeping weight higher against my shoulder.
I fumbled the key into the lock, careful not to wake him. The door sighed open. I stepped inside, nudged it closed with my hip, and reached for the light switch.
The room flared bright.
And there she was.
Piper Redding.
Standing calmly in the center of my living room, red coat soaked in blood, a small silver pistol steady in her hand.
The same little-girl voice from my nightmares tilted sweetly in the silence.
"Scream," she said, "and I shoot the boy."