Chapter 2 - Three Names
The attic door pressed inward against the latch.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a broken wooden picture frame—and held it like a weapon.
“Elise?” Caleb said again.
His voice was gentle.
“Baby, the power’s acting weird. Are you up there?”
Baby.
Six years of marriage lived inside that one word.
So did every lie.
The latch flexed.
I looked down at Mara’s message.
DON’T LET HIM SEE THE CLOCK.
I did not know why the clock mattered, but I shoved the dusty cardboard box behind a stack of Christmas decorations and dragged an old suitcase in front of it.
Then the uneven ticking stopped.
The door went still.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Caleb’s footsteps retreated.
I lowered the picture frame but kept both hands wrapped around it.
Downstairs, the raincoat man said, “Leave it.”
Caleb answered, “She lies badly.”
“You married her anyway.”
“I married the profile.”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek.
The pain helped me stay silent.
The profile.
Not me.
I crawled toward the gap in the floor and watched Caleb gather the passports.
The raincoat man pulled a small black case from under his coat and set it on the table. Inside were three phones, a slim metal device, and what looked like a stack of blank credit cards.
“No improvisation,” he said. “We move at two.”
“Noah?” Caleb asked.
My heart stopped.
“Already covered.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
“Covered how?”
The man looked at him for a long moment.
“Your concern is touching.”
“Answer me.”
“He stays with the grandparents until we know whether Agent Vale transmitted the archive.”
Agent Vale.
Mara.
Caleb knew her FBI name.
I slid backward, barely feeling my knees scrape over the plywood.
My phone vibrated once.
Another message.
Mara: IF YOU CAN GET OUT, GO EAST. NOT THE GARAGE. NOT YOUR CAR.
A second message followed.
Mara: THE CLOCK HAS A KEY.
I stared at the hidden box.
When we were children, our father had kept that brass clock on his workbench. He repaired avionics for civilian contractors after leaving the Air Force. Every night before bed, he wound it exactly seven turns.
Three years after he died, the clock had stopped.
At least I thought it had.
Downstairs, a chair scraped.
I pulled the box back out and opened it.
The brass clock was the size of my palm, tarnished at the edges. Its second hand jerked in an irregular pattern.
Tick.
Pause.
Tick-tick.
I turned it over.
A tiny key was taped beneath the folding stand.
Not a clock key.
A flat steel key no longer than my thumbnail.
There was also a scratch in the brass I had never noticed before: 1208.
My phone lost signal.
Not one bar.
The raincoat man’s device downstairs emitted a faint electronic whine.
A jammer.
I looked around the attic.
One narrow gable window faced the backyard.
Mara had told me to stay away from it.
She had also told me to get out if I could.
I crawled beneath the window and pushed it open two inches.
Cold rain hit my face.
The backyard dropped twelve feet to a sloped patch of wet grass and the roof of our screened porch.
I could climb onto the porch roof, then jump near the azaleas.
Maybe.
If I did not break my ankle.
Below, Caleb’s voice rose.
“She’s not in the bedroom.”
The raincoat man answered, “Then check the attic properly.”
I pushed the window wider.
The frame squealed.
Footsteps slammed onto the stairs.
I swung one leg through the opening.
The attic door crashed inward.
The latch tore free.
Caleb entered with a flashlight in one hand.
For half a second, the beam passed over empty boxes.
Then it found me.
“Elise.”
I was halfway through the window.
His face changed.
Not angry.
Afraid.
“Don’t,” he said.
I dropped.
My shoulder struck the porch roof first.
Pain shot down my arm.
I slid on wet shingles, caught the gutter, lost it, and fell into the azaleas.
Branches tore at my pajamas.
I hit the ground hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs.
Above me, Caleb leaned out the attic window.
“Elise!”
I staggered toward the back fence.
The raincoat man appeared at the kitchen door.
No gun.
No shouting.
He simply pressed two fingers to an earpiece.
That calm frightened me more than anything.
I climbed the fence, tore my palm open on a nail, and dropped into our neighbor’s yard.
Behind me, Caleb shouted, “She has the key!”
I froze for one fatal heartbeat.
He knew.
Then a car at the end of the alley flashed its headlights three times.
Tick.
Tick-tick.
The same rhythm as the clock.
A rear door swung open.
May you like
Someone inside called my name.
It was not Mara.
