Chapter 8
The upload progress bar hit 98 percent just as the neighborhood power grid flickered and died, plunging the basement studio into pitch darkness. Emergency battery backups whined to life, casting a sickly yellow hue across the room. David slammed his desk in frustration. "We’re at 98! The router dropped the connection just as the power surged!" Clara held up a hand, silencing him. In the sudden quiet of the subterranean room, a heavy, deliberate sound echoed from the front porch above—a sharp, triple rap of knuckles on the wooden door. It wasn't the police; local law enforcement wouldn't be this quiet or methodical. It was Eleanor’s cleanup crew. Clara motioned for David to stay silent, slipping a heavy iron wrench from a tool rack into her coat pocket. She crept up the basement stairs, her steps feather-light, keeping to the shadows of the hallway. Through the frosted glass of the front door, she could see the distinct silhouettes of two men standing outside, their posture rigid, hands resting casually near their tactical holsters. They didn't try to pick the lock or force entry; they were waiting for someone inside to panic and make a mistake. Clara backed away slowly into the kitchen, her heart beating in a steady, controlled rhythm. She walked into the bedroom where Leo was still sleeping peacefully under the heavy quilt. She gently shook him awake, whispering urgent instructions for him to crawl out the low side window into the overgrown backyard garden where David’s old pickup truck was parked. The boy’s eyes widened with sudden, mature understanding; he didn't cry, he simply nodded, kissed her cheek, and slipped through the window into the cool afternoon air. Clara watched him vanish into the greenery, then turned back toward the hallway, ready to draw the hunters away from her son at any cost.
