Five minutes after I buried my father, the gravedigger pulled me aside to whisper the coffin underground was empty, pressed a brass key marked 17 into my hand, and begged me not to go home—right as my mother, standing thirty yards away pretending to grieve, texted me three cold words: Come home alone.

The cabin was deep in the mountains, accessible only by a rutted dirt road that seemed to go on forever.

It was small, made of logs, with a stone fireplace and a porch that looked out over a valley of pine trees. No cell service, no internet, no neighbors for miles.

The perfect place to hide.

Tom left us there with enough supplies for a week, promising to check in when he could and to pass word to Agent Cole about our location.

Dad and I settled into an uneasy routine.

We chopped wood for the fireplace. We ate canned beans and instant coffee. We didn't talk much about the important things, sticking to safe topics like the weather and sports and memories from before everything went wrong.

But I couldn't stop thinking about my mother.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her voice on the phone, desperate and terrified, begging me to run.

She'd saved us.

And now she was probably dead.

Or worse.

On the third day, I couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm going back," I announced at breakfast.

Dad looked up from his coffee, his face weary.

"Ethan, no."

"I'm not asking for permission," I said, standing up. "She's my mother, Dad. She saved our lives. I'm not just going to leave her to die."

"And what exactly do you plan to do?" he asked, his voice rising. "March up to Hale Corporation headquarters and demand they give her back? You'll be dead before you get through the front door!"

"I don't know!" I shouted. "But I have to try! She's my mom!"

"She's also a traitor who tried to have us killed!"

"She was scared!"

"And that makes it okay?"

"It makes it understandable!"

We stared at each other across the small kitchen table, both of us breathing hard, years of pain and fear and anger boiling to the surface.

"I'm going," I said again, quieter this time but no less firm. "With or without you."

Dad looked at me for a long time.

Then he sighed, the fight going out of him.

"Fine," he said, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "But we do this my way. We're not going in blind. And we're not going to get ourselves killed."

We left the cabin an hour later, taking the old truck Tom had left for us.

Dad had made a phone call—to Agent Cole, he said, though he wouldn't tell me what they'd talked about. He'd also made another call, to someone he wouldn't name, his voice low and urgent.

"We're going to need help," was all he'd say.

We drove back toward the city, sticking to back roads, our headlights off as much as possible.

Dad had a plan.

Hale was holding Mom at the family estate, he said. It was where they always took people they wanted to... persuade. It was also heavily guarded, with cameras and gates and security teams patrolling the perimeter.

But Dad knew the grounds. He'd lived there for twenty years. He knew every blind spot, every security camera's field of view, every entrance and exit.

We parked the truck a mile from the estate and walked the rest of the way through the woods.

The estate loomed ahead of us, a massive mansion lit up like a fortress against the night sky.

"Stay close," Dad whispered. "And do exactly what I say."

We moved through the trees, sticking to the shadows. Dad led us along a path only he seemed to see, avoiding the security cameras, slipping through a gap in the fence that he'd apparently known about for years.

We reached the back of the house.

"The basement," Dad whispered. "That's where they'd keep her. Away from prying eyes."

We slipped in through a side door that Dad managed to unlock with a piece of wire and a lot of patience.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

We moved through the darkened hallways, our footsteps silent on the thick carpet. Everything looked the same as I remembered. The same paintings on the walls, the same furniture, the same smell of lemon polish and my mother's lavender candles.

But it felt different now. Cold. Menacing.

We reached the basement door.

Dad paused, his hand on the doorknob. He looked at me, his eyes serious.

"If something goes wrong," he said quietly. "If we get separated, you run. You don't look back. You don't worry about me or your mother. You just run. Understand?"

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

He opened the door.

The basement was dimly lit, the air cold and damp.

We descended the stairs slowly.

And then I heard it.

A woman's voice, raised in anger.

"You touch my son and I'll kill you myself."

Mom.

We reached the bottom of the stairs.

The basement had been converted into some kind of office. Desks lined the walls, covered with computers and files. And in the center of the room...

My mother was tied to a chair.

Her face was bruised, her lip split, her hair a mess. But her eyes were blazing with defiance.

Standing over her was a man in an expensive suit, his back to us.

"You're in no position to make threats, Mrs. Carter," he said, his voice cold and smooth. "You betrayed us. You know what happens to people who betray us."

"Go to hell," Mom spat.

The man laughed.

"Brave," he said. "But stupid. Where are they, Mrs. Carter? Your husband and your son? You warned them. You told them to run. So where did they go?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mom said, her voice steady despite the fear I knew she must be feeling.

The man backhanded her across the face.

Mom's head snapped to the side, blood trickling from her lip.

I saw red.

I started forward, but Dad grabbed my arm, holding me back, his eyes warning me to wait.

"Last chance," the man said, leaning down close to Mom's face. "Tell me where they are, or I'll make you wish you'd never been born."

Mom looked up at him, and I saw something in her eyes that I'd never seen before.

Not fear.

Pity.