Chapter 8 - TomorrowThe name on the wall felt like a sentence.
Not a threat.
A schedule.
Tomorrow.
I touched the letters.
Fresh paint.
The officer read them too.
“This isn't old.”
“No.”
Someone had written my name recently.
Behind us, gunfire stopped.
That silence was worse.
We moved deeper into the bunker.
A corridor stretched underground.
At the end was a steel door.
It had my initials scratched into it.
V.H.
The officer looked at me.
“Your initials?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know this door?”
“No.”
But I remembered something.
A training exercise from twenty-one years ago.
The instructors had used this bunker for survival drills.
There had been a locked command room.
Only officers had keys.
Mine had been lost.
Or so I thought.
I reached into my coat pocket.
The brass key my mother had left me was still there.
I inserted it.
The door opened.
Inside sat a desk.
Computer monitors.
External drives.
Stacks of files.
And a wall covered with photographs.
My family.
Meadow.
Me.
Serena.
Dennis.
Caleb Bell.
The Cedar Ridge family.
Everyone who had crossed Hawthorne Holdings.
The officer whispered:
“This is huge.”
Then the computer turned on.
A message appeared.
WELCOME HOME, VICTORIA.
A video began automatically.
Dennis appeared on-screen.
He looked exhausted.
No polished smile.
No perfect father.
Just a man who knew his world was collapsing.
“Tori,” he said.
“I know you're angry.”
I almost smiled.
“Angry?”
He continued.
“You think I built this.”
The video paused.
Then another man appeared beside him.
My blood froze.
I knew him.
Everyone in town knew him.
Sheriff Thomas Vance.
The man who had attended Meadow’s kindergarten graduation.
The man who had promised me he would find whoever hurt her.
The man who had taken my statement at the hospital.
He was standing beside Dennis.
Vance looked into the camera.
“Victoria,” he said.
“If you're watching this, I assume you've already found the bunker.”
The officer beside me went rigid.
His hand moved toward his radio.
The recording continued.
“You shouldn't have.”
Dennis looked at Vance.
“You said she wouldn't find it.”
Vance answered:
“She always was stubborn.”
Then Vance stepped closer to the camera.
“You have until midnight to bring us the blue box.”
I stared at the screen.
“If you don't…”
He paused.
“…your daughter dies.”
My heart stopped.
A second video appeared.
Meadow.
She was sitting in a chair.
Alive.
Crying.
General Pickles was in her lap.
A man stood behind her.
His face remained hidden.
“Mom,” Meadow whispered.
“Don't give them anything.”
My breath caught.
Vance slapped her shoulder.
“Quiet.”
The video ended.
The officer beside me whispered:
“We have to move.”
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“They found Meadow.”
My heart surged.
“Where?”
He shook his head.
“Not where you think.”
The call came from a nearby farmhouse.
A patrol unit had found a child matching Meadow’s description walking alone along a dirt road.
She was wrapped in a blanket.
Barefoot.
Alive.
We rushed there.
But the girl waiting inside the ambulance wasn't Meadow.
She was another child.
Seven years old.
Black hair.
Brown eyes.
Terrified.
The officer asked her name.
She whispered:
“Lucy Bell.”
I froze.
Caleb Bell’s daughter.
Everyone had assumed she left Nebraska with her mother.
But she had been missing for two years.
Now she sat in an ambulance wrapped in a blanket.
And when she saw me, she said:
“Mrs. Hawthorne…”
“Yes?”
She pointed toward the north.
“He told me you would come.”
“Who?”
She started crying.
“The man who took my daddy.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
May you like
And she whispered the name.
“Dennis.”
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