Page 117 of Silent Schemes

“If you ever come back,” I say, slow, lacing each word with the hate I don’t feel for her. “If you ever call, or write, or even breathe in this city again, I’ll kill you both.”

Her face doesn’t change, but her eyes are red and raw.

“And for the love of God,” I say, “get our child out of this fucked up mess.”

She nods and doesn’t say a word.

I watch them go, through the broken doorway, into the smoke and the sunrise. Sienna doesn’t look back.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sienna

Three days.

That's how long it takes to erase a life.

Three days to liquidate the hidden accounts I've been building since I was nineteen, knowing someday I'd need to run.

Three days to activate the false identities—Sarah and Michelle Crane, sisters from Toronto with boring jobs and boring lives and boring deaths that happened only on paper.

Three days to transform from Theodore Cross' weapon into no one at all.

The safe house where we've been hiding sits on the outskirts of Vancouver, a place so mundane no one would look twice.

Beige walls, beige carpet, beige existence.

Maya hasn't left her room except to use the bathroom.

She hasn't eaten anything substantial, surviving on water and the occasional piece of toast I force on her.

The white dress from the warehouse hangs on her like a shroud she can't shed.

I've tried to get her to change, bought her new clothes, even attempted to burn the dress while she slept.

But she woke up screaming, clutching it like armor, like evidence, like the last thing that makes sense in a world gone sideways.

So, I let her keep it.

We all have our ways of processing trauma.

Hers is wearing it like a second skin.

The Mercedes I'm driving isn't mine—stolen from long-term parking at the airport, plates switched twice, VIN filed off.

It's the kind of car that's invisible in its luxury, the kind successful people drive when they don't want to be noticed.

The trunk holds our new lives: two suitcases of carefully selected clothes, nothing that screams money or desperation.

A leather bag with cash in six different currencies.

Passports so perfect even I believe we're the Crane sisters.

We're at the border of Vancouver now, at a scenic overlook that tourists use for photos of the city skyline.

Harbourview Point, according to the faded sign.

It's almost dawn, that liminal hour when night creatures retreat and day animals haven't yet emerged.