Chapter 13 - The Unknown Number
The screen of Mark’s smartphone glowed brightly in the quiet kitchen, casting an eerie blue light across his stubbled face. He stared down at the incoming text message, his thumb hovering inches above the glass.
The sender was listed as Blocked Contact.
The attachment was a fresh, high-resolution photograph taken from outside the kitchen window—showing Mark standing alone by the island just seconds ago.
And beneath the photo was a single, terrifying sentence:
“You think federal prison can hold a real accountant, Mark? I told you... you never leave the family.”
Mark’s breath caught in his throat. He spun around, his eyes darting frantically toward the glass patio door leading to the backyard. The rain was hammering against the glass, blurring the dark expanse of the lawn beyond.
"Vance!" Mark screamed at the top of his lungs, sprinting toward the hallway. "Detective Vance! Stop them!"
He burst into the living room, but the front door was wide open to the gray afternoon drizzle. The federal agents, the police cruisers, the real Clara, and Lily were already gone, their red and blue lights fading down the suburban street. Only Sarah Jenkins remained near the entryway, packing her gray clipboard into her trench coat.
She whipped her head around at Mark’s panicked shouting, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Mr. Evans? What is it? What happened?"
Mark skidded to a halt, holding out his phone with a shaking hand.
"Victoria... she has another phone. She has someone on the outside. She’s still communicating!"
Sarah dropped her clipboard, rushing over to look at the screen. As her eyes scanned the text message, the color instantly drained from her face. She stepped back, her hands trembling as she looked up at Mark with absolute terror.
"That's impossible," Sarah whispered, her voice shaking violently. "Federal processing protocols strip all personal belongings the second a suspect enters the booking facility. She couldn't have a phone."
"Unless the person who helped her set up this entire life isn't just an accomplice on the outside," Mark said, a cold, sickening realization dawning on him. "Unless someone inside the agency—someone who helped her forge my identity in the first place—is still running the operation."
Before Sarah could answer, the front door slammed shut on its own, blown violently by a sudden gust of wind from the storm outside.
Simultaneously, every single light in the house flickered twice and died, plunging the modern suburban home into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Mark froze, straining his ears over the sound of the rain.
From the hallway leading down to the basement, a slow, deliberate sound echoed through the floorboards—the unmistakable click of heavy boots stepping up the wooden stairs.
May you like
Someone was coming out of the cellar. And they hadn't used the key.
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