Chapter 6 - The Shadow on the Hill
"Thomas, do not do anything stupid," Detective Martinez warned over the phone as siren noise echoed in the background. "Give me the location."
"It's a cabin off County Road 402 in Llano County," I said, pacing near the hospital exit doors. "It’s registered under the Vance Family Trust. She’s driving an old blue Ford F-150 that belonged to her uncle. It’s off-grid, no cell service out there."
"I'm patching in the Llano County Sheriff's Department right now," Martinez said sharply. "Units are thirty minutes out from that sector. Stay at the hospital with the children, Thomas! That is an order!"
I hung up the phone.
I walked back to Room 204. Through the door, I saw my friend Elena—a trusted family attorney I had called at 2:00 AM—sitting by Leo’s bed, softly reading him a story. Elena had already filed emergency ex-parte paperwork with a district judge to secure temporary legal custody of both children in my name.
"Elena," I whispered, stepping inside.
She looked up, seeing the look on my face. "Thomas? What's going on?"
"Watch them," I said, my voice low and dead steady. "Don't let anyone into this room except the assigned police guard. I have to settle something."
"Thomas, wait—"
I turned and walked out of the hospital into the cool morning air. It was 4:30 AM. The sun wouldn't rise for another hour and a half.
I got into my truck, turned the ignition, and pointed the headlights west toward Highway 71.
The two-hour drive to Llano County felt like a journey through an empty abyss. My mind ran through every conversation I had ever had with Rebecca. I remembered her gentle voice when she talked about her career as a former dental assistant. I remembered how she used to adjust Ethan's tie before dinner parties.
It was all an act. She was a predator who had targeted my brother, isolated him, murdered him, stolen his wealth, and then treated his children like disposable trash.
I exited the highway onto a narrow, unpaved gravel road that wound through dense thickets of Ashe juniper and mesquite trees. The dust kicked up by my tires hung thick in the moonlight.
As I approached the GPS coordinates for County Road 402, I turned off my truck’s main headlights, leaving only the dim yellow fog lights on to navigate the treacherous rutted trail.
The cabin appeared through the trees—a dilapidated two-room wooden structure with a rusted tin roof.
Parked under the wooden carport was the faded blue Ford F-150. A faint glow of orange light flickered from the small side window of the cabin.
She was inside.
I parked my truck two hundred yards back down the trail, hidden behind a clump of cedar trees. I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out a heavy metal tire iron. My heart was pounding like a war drum in my chest, but my hands were completely steady.
I crept through the brush, my boots making no sound against the damp earth.
As I drew closer to the side window, I heard the sound of glass clinking and paper rustling. I pressed my back against the weathered wooden wall and peered through the dust-covered glass.
Rebecca was sitting at a rough wooden table lit by a single kerosene lamp.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't panicked.
She was systematically sorting through thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills, packing them neatly into a waterproof duffel bag alongside a set of forged Mexican identity documents. Beside the bag sat a small glass vial and a disposable syringe.
The Succinylcholine.
She wasn't just preparing to run across the border. She was preparing to eliminate any trace of herself if she was cornered.
I stepped around to the front porch. The old floorboards creaked under my weight.
Inside, the rustling stopped instantly.
"Who's there?" Rebecca’s voice came sharp, cold, and entirely devoid of the gentle, fragile persona she had worn for three years.
I didn't answer. I raised my foot and kicked the front door directly beside the lock.
The rusted latch gave way with a deafening crack, and the door swung wide open, slamming against the wall.
Rebecca gasped, jumping back from the table, her hand instantly reaching for a small revolver lying beside her duffel bag.
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I stepped into the doorway, the heavy tire iron gripped in my hand, my eyes locked onto hers.
"Hello, Rebecca," I said.
