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“G,” she said. “The message was signed with a G. You expected it to be from someone else—but G was your last handler’s initial, and Lark thought you might respond better to something familiar.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I nodded once, and the sheet slipped from my fingers.
“You are really here,” I said, the words foreign on my tongue.
“We are,” the woman said. “And it is time to go. Now.”
“But . . . the guard.” I glanced toward the window. “He is still out there.”
The man moved beside me and pulled a jacket from the back of a chair. “We’ve already accounted for him. He’s not a problem. Now move before he becomes one.”
I hesitated.
Years of fear weren’t so easily cast aside. The weight of obedience, of silence, of calculated compliance—they pressed in all at once. I tossed back the covers and made to stand. Then the world collapsed, as I remember why I hadn’t left before that moment.
“Eszter.”
“I’m sorry?” the man asked.
“Where is my daughter? I will not leave without her.”
The woman stepped forward, nudging the man back. “Doctor, we have a team retrieving her at this very moment. We will get you both out. Now, please, we need to go.”
I blinked a few times, letting her words sink in. They were saving Eszter. They were saving my daughter.
It was almost too much to bear. The room tilted. My head swam.
Only the woman gripping my arm kept me upright.
“Change quickly. We need to be out of here in five minutes.” The man’s voice brooked no argument.
I jolted into action, darting to my closet and pulling on trousers, then a shirt, then my heavy woolen coat.
“You will want gloves and a hat,” the woman said, her voice not unkind. “It is quite cold this evening.”
“Yes.” I nodded, grabbing my gloves from where I’d tossed them on the dresser. “Thank you.”
“I will lead us,” the woman said. “My friend will follow behind.”
I nodded, numb and unsure, but somehow hopeful, too.
As promised, the woman led the way, a dark shape in the absence of light, only a faint outline of her hair visible in moonlight bleeding through the windows. The man took up the rear, his steps more fluid, more aggressive. His was the grace of an athlete. His silence screamed preparation for violence.
We reached the base of the staircase. I knew every shadow here, every creak and scuff, every loose floorboard.
We passed the hallway to the kitchen, but my feet didn’t keep going. I veered right, toward the study.
The woman hissed, “Doctor, stop! There’s no time—”
“I have to—”
“No.”
“I have to.” I turned the doorknob.
The woman cursed.