Chapter 4 - The Hunting Cabin
“Ian, hold on! I’m sending an ambulance—”
“No!” he coughed, a wet, horrifying sound. “If the local cops find me, she’ll have them finish the job. Just you, Nat. Please.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Ramirez. He had heard every word. To his credit, the detective didn’t hesitate. “The local department might be compromised by your father’s money, but I’m state police. I’ll drive you. We go off the books.”
I called Adam, telling him to lock the doors, set the alarm, and not open it for anyone.
The drive to the old hunting cabin in the dense woods of the Appalachian foothills took an agonizing hour. The sun was setting, casting long, skeletal shadows through the pine trees. Walt hadn’t used the cabin in a decade. It was rotting, isolated, and entirely off the grid.
Ramirez drew his weapon as we approached the wooden porch. The front door was ajar.
We found Ian on the floor of the dusty living room. He looked terrible. He had a deep, crudely bandaged laceration on the side of his head, and his clothes were stained with dried blood. But he was breathing.
“Ian!” I dropped to my knees, pulling my big brother into my arms.
He winced but hugged me back, tears cutting through the grime on his face. “You got her out?” he asked, his voice trembling. “You got my little girl?”
“She’s safe. She’s with Adam and Noah,” I sobbed.
Ramirez knelt beside us, applying a fresh pressure dressing to Ian’s head. “Ian, I’m State Detective Ramirez. You need to tell me exactly what happened at your parents' house.”
Ian took a shuddering breath. “I’ve been clean for two years. I went there to get Lizzy. Mom refused to let me see her. Said I was unfit. But while they were arguing in the kitchen, I went looking for Lizzy. I found the basement. I found the false wall.”
Ian looked at me, his eyes hollow with trauma.
“I didn't just find Lizzy’s closet, Nat. I broke the drywall. I found the space behind it. I found Clara.”
The air left my lungs. “Clara is… she’s down there?”
“No,” Ian shook his head. “I found Clara’s belongings. And I found a map. Mom didn't kill her, Nat. Clara didn’t die in that house. Mom sold her.”
Ramirez froze. “Sold her?”
“To a private ‘troubled teen’ facility out of state. One that doesn't exist on paper. Mom gets a kickback for providing kids to off-the-grid labor camps. She’s been doing it for years. Fostering kids, drugging them to look crazy, and shipping them off. When I confronted her, Dad hit me from behind with a fireplace poker. They thought I was dead. They dragged me to the trunk of the car. I woke up, kicked the trunk latch open at a stoplight, and ran into the woods.”
My parents weren't just abusive. They were monsters operating a trafficking ring disguised as aristocratic philanthropy.
“We have to get you to a safe hospital,” Ramirez said, helping Ian up. “I have enough to call in the FBI. Your parents are going away forever.”
But as we stepped out onto the porch, the blinding glare of high-beam headlights suddenly illuminated the trees.
A black SUV idled in the dirt driveway.
The doors opened. Three men stepped out. They weren't cops. They were private security—mercenaries my mother’s money had bought.
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And from the passenger seat, my mother stepped out into the cold night air, holding a suppressed handgun.
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