As we sprinted toward the treeline at the back of our suburban yard, the back porch light snapped on. I pulled Becca behind a thick oak tree, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mother stepped out onto the deck. She wasn’t wearing her pajamas. She was wearing her designer trench coat, her hair perfectly tied back, holding a heavy flashlight. She wasn’t looking for us with the eyes of a mother; she was scanning the perimeter like a hunter.
We ran for three miles. My lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass, and Becca was sobbing silently, her hand white-knuckled in mine. We reached a 24-hour convenience store under the harsh buzz of neon lights. I pulled out my phone to call my dad. NO ANSWER. I called again. Nothing. Then, a text from my mother popped up: “Zoe, sweetheart, come home. Your father is having a breakdown. He’s dangerous. I’m coming to get you.”
I looked at the road. A silver SUV—her car—slowly cruised past the store, its headlights dimmed. She was searching every alley, every bus stop. She looked focused. Calm. The mask of the “perfect suburban mom” hadn’t just slipped; it had dissolved. My father had been auditing the books for her real estate firm. He had found the offshore accounts, the money laundering, and the names of people who didn’t exist. He hadn’t told me, but I knew his work. He was a man who couldn’t ignore a lie.
Suddenly, a message from an unknown number appeared. “This is Special Agent Reeves, FBI. Your father contacted us four hours ago. He provided a safe-house location. Zoe, look at your father’s last message again. The one with the coordinates.” I scrolled up. There was a link I hadn’t seen in my panic. It led to a small cabin three towns over. I HAD TO GET BECCA THERE.
We stole a bike from a neighbor’s yard and pedaled until the sun began to bleed over the horizon. We reached the cabin—a secluded, dilapidated structure hidden deep in the woods. Agent Reeves was waiting there with two other men in dark jackets. I felt a wave of relief so intense I nearly fainted. “Where’s my dad?” I screamed, looking around the clearing. “Is he in Seattle? Is he safe?”
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