Chapter 3 - THE HIDDEN DOSSIER
The bathroom window was our only viable exit, a small frosted rectangle positioned high above the porcelain tub, meant more for ventilation than escape. Whispering fierce, low instructions, I boosted Tyler up onto the edge of the sink, guiding his shivering hands toward the latch. The metal rusted slightly with age, resisting our desperate tugs, but with a sharp, silent heave, the window popped open. Cool, damp night air rushed into the room, stinging my lungs and clearing the last lingering fog of the paralytic drug from my brain. I hoisted Tyler through first, catching the soft thud of his sneakers hitting the mulch outside in the side yard. "Stay right by the brick wall, baby," I hissed softly through the screen. "Don't make a sound." Without hesitating, I pulled myself up, squeezing my frame through the narrow opening and dropping down into the flowerbed beside him. My knees buckled slightly—the residual effects of the poison still burned in my joints—but adrenaline surged through my veins, keeping me upright. Instead of fleeing toward the street, my mind flashed back to the text message. The trash. If there was proof in the outdoor bins by the garage, I couldn't leave it for them to burn or bury. Crouching low in the shadows of the overgrown hydrangeas, I crept along the side of the house toward the large green wheelie bins lined up by the side door. The motion-activated security floodlight above the garage flickered on, instantly casting the driveway in blinding white light. I froze, pressing my back flat against the rough brick wall. Scott’s voice drifted out from the open kitchen window just feet above my head. "The trash bag was heavier than I left it," Elena snapped, her tone sharp with sudden panic. "Scott, did you throw out the receipt from the apothecary downtown?" My breath caught. An apothecary receipt. That was the proof. That was the smoking gun that would tie Scott directly to the purchase of the synthetic paralytic agent. I peeked around the corner of the brick pillar. Elena was standing by the large industrial garbage bins, pulling out a torn black plastic liner, her manicured fingers frantically sorting through the discarded packaging, old food containers, and paper towels. Time was running out. The sirens were growing louder now, the wailing notes bouncing off neighboring rooftops as the police cruisers turned onto our residential street.
