Chapter 2 - The Escape Route"Back door!" Sheriff Walker roared, snapping out of his shock and drawing his service weapon in a single fluid motion. "Deputy Vance, cover the perimeter! Nobody lets that vehicle leave this property!"
Three patrol cars squealed tires as they tore around the side of the house toward the detached garage.
I didn't wait for orders. Adrenaline, honed by four years of combat deployments and hostile tactical environments, took over. I sprinted past the paralyzed news crew, vaulted over the white picket fence, and hit the side alleyway just as the garage door blasted outward in a shower of splintered plywood and white paint.
A black Ford Explorer—dusty, unwashed, and packed to the ceiling with plastic storage bins—peeled backward out of the garage.
Behind the steering wheel sat my father, veins bulging in his neck, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated panic. In the passenger seat, my mother was violently shoving bundles of cash and manila folders into a black trash bag.
"Stop right there!" I yelled, planting my boots firmly in the center of the driveway, my hand resting instinctively where my sidearm usually sat.
My father slammed on the brakes. The tires smoked against the asphalt, stopping barely two feet from my shins. The driver's side window rolled down with a mechanical groan.
"You ruin everything!" my mother shrieked, leaning across the console, her hair wild and her eyes bloodshot. "You should have stayed in the dirt! You should have died in the desert!"
"Where is he?" I demanded, stepping closer, ignoring the threatening rev of the engine. "Who is that boy in the upstairs window, Mother? Who did you steal?"
My father didn't answer. Instead, a grim, calculated smile crept across his lips—a smile I recognized from every childhood punishment where I was forced to take the blame for things I never did.
"You want the truth about that boy, Sarah?" my father whispered, his voice dangerously calm above the roaring engine. "You think we're monsters? Check the basement freezer before you point fingers. The real skeleton isn't upstairs."
With a brutal jerk of the steering wheel, he threw the SUV into drive, sideswiping a police cruiser as he tore across the front lawn, scattering the crowd of terrified onlookers and racing down Route 9 toward the state highway.
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Sheriff Walker skidded to a halt beside me, lowering his smoking radio. "They're gone into the county reserve. Helicopters won't reach us for twenty minutes." He grabbed my shoulder, his expression grim. "Sarah... what did your father mean about the basement?"
I looked back at the darkened, silent house. Upstairs, a small shadow was still pressed against the glass, watching us wait.
