Chapter 3 - THE GIRL WHO DIED
Renley laughed.
It was an automatic sound.
Small.
Nervous.
Wrong.
“I didn't die.”
Nobody else laughed.
Eleanor stared at her as though Renley were a ghost standing in the study.
Vincent closed the door.
“Eleanor.”
“She deserves to know.”
“She is twelve.”
“So was her mother when your family started lying to her.”
Vincent slammed his palm against the desk.
“Enough.”
Renley jumped.
Then anger replaced fear.
“Stop talking about me like I'm not here!”
The room went quiet.
Renley pointed at Eleanor.
“You said my mother told you I died.”
“Yes.”
“My mom doesn't even know you.”
Eleanor looked at Vincent.
Vincent looked away.
That was answer enough.
Renley's throat tightened.
“My mother's name is Claire Hart.”
Eleanor nodded.
“I know.”
Renley's stomach dropped.
“How?”
Eleanor crossed toward the fireplace.
On the mantel stood an old photograph.
She picked it up and handed it to Renley.
Four people stood beside a lake.
A younger Vincent.
Eleanor.
Walter Pike.
And a teenage girl.
Renley nearly dropped the frame.
The teenage girl was her mother.
Claire.
Same eyes.
Same dark hair.
Same crooked smile.
“No.”
The word barely came out.
Renley looked at Vincent.
“You know my mom.”
Vincent said nothing.
“You KNOW my mom!”
“Yes.”
The truth landed like a physical blow.
Renley backed into a chair.
Walter had known.
Walter had sat across from her every Thursday for two years and never said a word.
“What was Walter to her?”
Eleanor answered.
“Her protector.”
Vincent corrected her.
“Her jailer.”
Eleanor snapped toward him.
“He saved her life.”
“He ruined ours.”
Gunfire suddenly cracked outside again.
Everyone froze.
Marcus looked through the curtain.
“Movement near the north wall.”
Vincent turned.
“Take Eleanor downstairs.”
“I am not going anywhere.”
“You are if you want to stay alive.”
Renley held up the key.
“What is locker 317?”
Nobody answered.
She shouted:
“WHAT IS IT?”
Eleanor finally spoke.
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
Vincent stared at the brass key.
“Proof that someone inside my organization murdered thirteen people.”
Renley stopped breathing.
Vincent continued.
“Eighteen years ago, someone leaked the location of a meeting. Two families were supposed to negotiate peace.”
Eleanor's expression hardened.
“They were slaughtered.”
“And Walter?” Renley asked.
“He found out who arranged it.”
“Who?”
“We never knew.”
“But the proof is in the locker.”
Vincent nodded.
“Apparently.”
Renley stared at the key.
“Then why didn't Walter give it to you?”
Nobody answered.
That frightened her more than anything else.
Marcus suddenly received a message on a small radio clipped to his shoulder.
He listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
Marcus looked directly at Renley.
“We found something outside the gate.”
Vincent followed him.
Renley refused to stay behind.
Outside, near the wreckage, a cardboard box sat beneath the mansion's security light.
No one had seen who left it.
Marcus opened it carefully.
Inside was Renley's red school backpack.
Her breath stopped.
She had left it at the community kitchen.
Vincent reached inside.
A math book.
A pencil case.
A half-eaten granola bar.
Then a photograph.
Renley's mother walking out of their apartment that morning.
On the back, someone had written:
SHE LIED TO BOTH OF US.
Renley felt dizzy.
Vincent grabbed his phone again.
Still no signal.
Renley reached for the photograph.
Below the message was another line.
MIDNIGHT.
LOCKER 317.
COME ALONE.
Vincent cursed.
Marcus looked toward the road.
“They're using the girl.”
“No,” Eleanor said.
Everyone turned.
Eleanor's face had gone pale.
“They're not using her.”
She pointed to something beneath the photograph.
A symbol had been drawn in red ink.
A circle split by three lines.
Vincent whispered:
“That group disappeared eighteen years ago.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“No.”
Her eyes moved to Renley.
“They've been waiting eighteen years.”
“For what?” Renley asked.
May you like
Eleanor answered:
“For her.”
