Chapter 5 - The Voice in the Woods
"Stay here," Sarah whispered, her hand instinctively dropping toward the heavy iron fireplace poker leaning against the stone hearth.
I nodded, moving swiftly to Lily’s side. I pulled my daughter off the wooden bench and knelt behind the sturdy oak dining table, pressing a finger to my lips. Lily’s eyes grew wide and round with fear, but she didn't make a sound, burying her face against my shoulder while clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Heavy footsteps mounted the wooden porch steps.
Creak.
Then came a deliberate, heavy knock on the front door—three slow, measured raps that echoed through the quiet cabin like hammer blows.
"Claire," a voice called out from the porch. It wasn't my father’s sharp, commanding bark, nor was it a stranger's rough tone. It was a voice I hadn't heard in five years—warm, smooth, and laced with a familiar, chilling calm. "I know you're in there, sweetheart. Open the door. Let's talk before things get out of hand."
David.
My ex-fiancé—the man my parents had tried to force me to marry twelve years ago before I fled across the country—was standing on our porch.
Sarah’s face drained of all color. "David? How the hell did he find us?"
"He didn't find us through the car," I whispered, realization dawning with sickening clarity. "My old laptop... I left it in the trunk of the Civic. It had my offline sync folder active. David works for my father’s firm as an associate investigator."
"Claire!" David called out again, his voice turning sharper, losing its paternal warmth. "You can’t run from the Trust. Your father has signed emergency conservatorship papers backed by three appellate judges. If you don't open this door right now, the sheriff’s deputies currently surrounding this property will come through the windows with a warrant."
I stood up slowly, stepping away from Lily. "Sarah, stay with her. Lock the interior bedroom door if you hear glass break."
"Claire, don't be stupid," Sarah hissed, grabbing my wrist. "He's bluffing. There's no cell service out here—how could local deputies know where we are?"
"They don't need cell service," I said, looking down at my purse where I had tossed the backup portable GPS tracker I had ripped from my car's glove compartment.
I had assumed I was safe because I left my phone in the diner's dumpster. But I hadn't checked the bottom of my leather handbag. Inside the small side pocket, the backup tracker—activated and glowing with a faint green LED light—was blinking steadily, transmitting our precise coordinates straight to David’s laptop.
I pulled the small metallic disc out of my bag, staring at it with cold fury.
"They didn't just track Lily," I murmured. "They tracked me."
I walked over to the front door, unlatched the heavy deadbolt, and pulled it open wide.
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David stood on the porch, dressed in an expensive charcoal wool coat, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh mountain sunlight. He looked older, harsher, the easy charm of his twenties replaced by the predatory stillness of a corporate shark who always got his way.
"Well, Claire," David smiled, adjusting his cuffs. "It looks like you haven't lost your taste for dramatic road trips. Now, where is Lily?"
