Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Backpack
Deep within the subterranean service wing of Ellington Manor, the guest suite bathroom felt like a five-star spa. Steam billowed from a massive clawfoot tub filled with steaming, scented water, fogging up the heavy glass mirrors.
Sam sat on the edge of the marble-tiled floor, staring down at his reflection in the water. For the first time in three days, the bone-deep chill that had settled into his marrow began to recede, replaced by a heavy, languid warmth.
Maria bustled around the room, laying out a pair of soft cotton sweatpants, a clean woolen sweater that had belonged to a distant cousin's child years ago, and a fluffy white bathrobe.
"There now," Maria said, pouring a cup of warm chamomile tea and setting it on the marble counter within arm's reach. "Drink that up slowly, honey. It'll settle your stomach. I'm going to step out into the hallway so you can wash up in peace. When you're done, put on those clothes and come out to the kitchen. I've got a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich waiting just for you."
"Thank you, ma'am," Sam whispered, his voice cracking.
"You call me Maria, okay? Not ma'am. We're family here—at least for tonight." Maria smiled warmly, giving his matted hair a gentle pat before slipping out and clicking the heavy oak door shut behind her.
Left alone in the steam-filled sanctuary, Sam let out a long, shuddering breath. He dipped his bruised, blistered feet into the hot water, hissing slightly as the heat hit his raw skin. He washed away three days of grime, street dust, and dried blood, watching the water turn a murky, dark gray.
When he finally stepped out, dried off, and dressed in the clean, oversized clothes, he felt like a ghost inhabiting someone else's body. The sweater swallowed his slight frame, the sleeves rolled up several times at his wrists.
Before leaving the bathroom, his eyes fell upon his discarded, duct-taped backpack resting on the tiled floor.
A wave of panic surged through him. He knelt down beside it, unzipping the jammed, rusted zipper with trembling fingers. He reached inside, bypassing a crumpled, dirty jacket and an empty juice box, and felt for the secret lining at the very bottom. His small fingers hooked into a hidden tear in the fabric, pulling out a small, heavy object wrapped tightly in several layers of greasy plastic wrap.
He peeled back the plastic with shaking hands.
Inside lay a heavy, professional-grade digital flash drive—slick, black, and engraved with a series of alphanumeric security codes—alongside a water-damaged, folded leather notebook filled with handwritten schematics, cryptographic keys, and desperate, frantic notes scrawled in hurried handwriting.
Sam clutched the items to his chest, tears finally breaking free and tracking down his freshly scrubbed cheeks. These items were the reason men in dark suits had chased him through the freezing rain of Manhattan. These items were the reason his father had shoved him out of a basement window three nights ago, whispering a single, terrifying command: Run, Sam. Don't look back, and never let them find this.
He carefully re-wrapped the flash drive and the notebook, shoving them deep into the inner pocket of the woolen sweater where they pressed firmly against his ribs. He zipped the old backpack shut, slung it over one shoulder like a heavy anchor, and opened the door to face the unknown.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the private study, Robert Ellington sat behind his massive mahogany desk, staring at a high-resolution laptop screen.
Elizabeth rolled her wheelchair into the room, her expression severe. She closed the heavy mahogany double doors behind her to ensure privacy.
"Robert, we need to talk about what we're going to do with him tomorrow morning," Elizabeth said, her voice uncompromising. "I've been thinking. We cannot keep him. It’s illegal, it’s unsafe, and quite frankly, it’s irresponsible. The authorities must be notified at first light. Child Protective Services will place him in a proper facility."
Robert looked up from his screen, his jaw set in a hard line. "No, Elizabeth. We are not calling CPS tomorrow morning."
"Are you insane?" Elizabeth snapped, her voice rising in disbelief. "You don't even know his last name! You don't know where he came from! He could be a runaway delinquent, or worse—what if his parents are criminals? What if someone is looking for him?"
"Exactly," Robert said quietly, turning the laptop screen toward her. "That's why I ran a preliminary biometric sweep against missing children databases using our internal private security software."
Elizabeth frowned, wheeling closer to the desk. "And?"
"Nothing," Robert said, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "There is no missing person report filed for a boy named Sam matching his description anywhere in the tri-state area. In fact... according to the national databases, he doesn't exist."
Elizabeth froze, her hands gripping the armrests. "What do you mean, he doesn't exist?"
"I mean," Robert said, leaning back in his leather chair and running a hand over his face, "his name isn't in the school registry, there’s no medical record, and his facial biometrics returned zero hits across public databases. It's as if he dropped off the face of the earth."
Before Elizabeth could process the chilling implication of her husband's words, a soft knock echoed at the study door, followed by Maria’s voice.
May you like
"Mr. and Mrs. Ellington? The boy is done eating. But... you might want to come down to the kitchen. He brought something with him that he insists on giving to Mr. Ellington personally."
Robert and Elizabeth exchanged a long, tense look. The storm had officially arrived.
