Chapter 11 - The Vanishing at Midnight
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I woke up at two in the morning to an eerie, suffocating silence. The space beside me on the bed was cold.
“Irene?” I called out, sitting up quickly.
No answer echoed back from the dark master bedroom.
I swung my legs out of bed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The hallway lights were off. I moved quietly through the mansion, checking the nursery, the kitchen, and the library.
When I reached the rear patio, the French doors were standing wide open, letting in the warm desert breeze.
On the flagstone porch lay Irene’s cell phone, its screen shattered into a spiderweb pattern. Beside it was a single smear of fresh blood on the white stone.
“Irene!” I roared into the night sky, sprinting across the lawn toward the perimeter fence.
The desert beyond the estate was pitch black, silent except for the distant howl of a coyote. There were tire tracks imprinted fresh into the gravel driveway near the side gate.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I snatched it out, my hands shaking violently.
An unknown number appeared on the screen. I pressed answer.
“If you go to the police, Marcus, she dies,” Carla’s voice came through the receiver, entirely stripped of her usual polite cadence. She sounded frantic, desperate, and cold.
“Where is she, Carla?!” I screamed, blood rushing to my ears. “If you touch a hair on her head, I will tear you apart with my bare hands!”
“Victor has her,” Carla replied, her voice trembling slightly over the static. “He knows about the key. Bring the brass key to the industrial rail yard on South 19th Avenue in one hour. Alone. If I see a single patrol car, Victor will make sure Irene never speaks again.”
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“I’m coming,” I spat into the phone. “Don’t you touch her.”
I turned back toward the garage, my terror transforming into a cold, lethal fury.
