ON MY SON’S WEDDING MORNING, OUR FAMILY DRIVER PUSHED ME INTO THE TRUNK AND THREW A BLANKET OVER …
“She sent an address.”
“Everything all right?” Frederick asked.
“I don’t know. She says it’s urgent.”
Blake’s voice tightened.
“Fred, can we make a quick stop? I need to get Natasha.”
“Of course, sir.”
Frederick’s response came too easily.
Too prepared.
He knew.
Frederick knew this would happen.
The car turned again.
The smooth hum of highway pavement became the rougher texture of neighborhood streets.
I felt every bump.
Every pothole.
“This is it,” Blake sounded confused. “This neighborhood is… I mean, Natasha’s friends usually live in…”
He trailed off.
I knew what he meant.
Natasha’s circle—or the circle she’d shown us—lived in places like ours.
Gated communities.
Tree-lined streets with names like Oakmont Drive and Willow Creek Lane.
This wasn’t that.
The car stopped.
“I’ll be right back,” Blake said. “She told me to wait inside in the living room.”
The door opened.
Closed.
Footsteps on pavement growing fainter.
Then Frederick’s voice, low and urgent.
“Mrs. Hayes, come out now.”
I pushed the blanket off.
Light flooded in—morning sun, almost blinding after so long in darkness.
I blinked hard, my eyes adjusting.
Frederick stood at the open door, hand extended to help me out.
I took it.
My legs had gone stiff from staying curled up.
My dress was wrinkled beyond repair.
I didn’t care.
“Frederick,” I hissed, keeping my voice low. “What is this? Where are we?”
He didn’t answer.
Just pointed.
I followed his gesture to a small single-story house painted pale yellow, maybe thirty years old.
The lawn needed mowing.
A child’s bike lay on its side near the garage.
And there at the end of the driveway—a mailbox.
Black letters on white.
The Collins family.
I stared at it.
Read it again.
Collins.
Collins.
I whispered.
“Natasha’s last name is Quinn.”
Frederick’s expression stayed grim.
“Look at the house, Mrs. Hayes.”
I did.
Blake stood at the front door, the main entrance facing the street.
He knocked.
The door opened.
