BLOOD ON PALE SILK

By midday, Eleanor’s station wagon was fifty miles north of the county line. The steady sweep of the windshield wipers kept rhythm with Clara’s deep, rhythmic breathing from the passenger seat. She had finally fallen into a restful, dreamless sleep, her body surrendering to exhaustion now that the immediate threat was miles behind them.

In Eleanor’s purse beneath the front seat lay the flash drive. She had made two copies at an internet café off the highway. One was in an envelope addressed to the state attorney general’s special crimes division, timed to be mailed from a post office three states away. The other would stay with her forever—an insurance policy against Julian’s remaining family and corrupt associates.

The landscape changed from coastal flatlands to dense, forested mountains. Pine trees stood tall and dark against the overcast sky. Here, names meant nothing. Money could not purchase eyes in these woods.

Eleanor glanced at Clara’s stomach. A new life was growing there, innocent of Julian’s cruelty, protected by the blood that had been spilled on the foyer rug. She reached over, gently brushing a lock of hair from Clara’s forehead, mirroring the kiss she had given her the night before.

“They aren’t here,” Eleanor whispered to the quiet cabin of the car.