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“That’s history.”

From the curb, it doesn’t look like somewhere you’d want to escape from.That’s the trick.Normal windows.Normal yard.Porch light glowing like it’s expecting company.It’s only when you really look—too many right angles, too few shadows—that it makes sense.

The guards don’t shift.The camera above the porch is tucked behind the lantern like it belongs there.

Nothing about it says prison.

But I’ve broken into enough homes to recognize the kind you have to breakoutof.

Rachel leans against the car, arms crossed, chewing her thumbnail like it owes her money.“This it?”

I don’t answer.

Because yes, this is it.And no, I’m not ready to say it out loud.Naming something gives it weight.And right now, I need to be light.

“Well?”she tries again.

“You stay here.”

She laughs.It doesn’t sound amused.“The hell I do.”

“You’re not coming up the hill.”

“I didn’t drive two hours and commit, what, three felonies just to sit in a car like some desperate Uber date.”

I reach over and take the key.

“Hey—what the fuck?”

“You said they might kill me,” I remind her.“I believe you.Which means I’m not bringing liabilities.”

She glares.“So now I’m a liability?”

“No,” I say, stepping out.“Now you're cargo.”

I shut the door before she can respond.Her muffled rant trails behind me like static.

I hike the incline slow.Brush and limestone.Pine needles underfoot.Smells like mulch and the kind of cash that doesn’t get taxed.

Halfway up, I pause.

From here, the property unfolds with engineered symmetry.One long drive.Two outbuildings.A perimeter walk.Security is light, but confident.Like they know no one’s coming.Or think no one would be dumb enough to try.

I count four men outside.

One leans against the porch column, checking his phone.

Two walk the perimeter, lazy and loose.One lights a cigarette off the other.

The fourth is stationed near the garage, sitting in the driver's seat of a running car, half-asleep.

I watch them for half an hour.Maybe more.Let the rhythm settle in my bones.

There’s a camera tucked in the eaves.

Inside, there are silhouettes.Hard to count without risking movement.

I know she’s there.Not by logic.Not by pattern.