Chapter 12 - The Night the Hedges Spoke
The following forty-eight hours were a exercise in psychological warfare.
Every time I looked out the front window,
I saw a black SUV parked three houses down,
its engine idling,
its windows tinted into obsidian voids.
The mail was no longer just bills and advertisements;
it was a collection of unmarked envelopes containing nothing but blank sheets of paper.
A warning.
A message that they were close enough to touch me.
I sat in the darkened living room,
cradling Hazel,
the silence of the house amplified by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock.
My mother had hired a private security team,
two men who looked like blocks of granite,
now stationed at the perimeter of the property.
But even their presence didn't stop the feeling of being hunted.
At 2:00 AM,
my phone vibrated on the coffee table.
An unknown number.
I didn't want to answer,
but the persistence of the vibration felt like a finger poking at a bruise.
I swiped the screen.
“Mallory,”
the voice was distorted,
metallic,
unrecognizable.
“The folder doesn't belong to you.”
“It belongs to the city.”
“Return it,”
“and your daughter gets to grow up with her mother.”
I felt the blood drain from my face,
my grip on Hazel tightening just enough to make her stir.
“Who is this?”
I demanded,
though I knew I wouldn't get an answer.
“A friend,”
the voice said,
the word dripping with irony.
“A friend who knows exactly where your mother’s security guards are standing.”
“A friend who knows that one of them has a gambling debt.”
“Tick-tock,
Mallory.”
The line went dead.
I stood up,
my heart racing,
and ran to the kitchen where my mother was monitoring the security feeds on her laptop.
“Mom,
we have a mole,”
I whispered,
repeating the caller’s words.
She didn't panic;
she simply pulled up the background checks for the two men outside.
“They’re professional,
Mal,”
she said,
trying to stay calm.
“But everyone has a price,”
I countered.
I looked at the screen,
watching the grainy infrared footage of the backyard.
Suddenly,
a light flickered in the woods beyond the fence.
A signal.
My mother’s hands flew over the keyboard,
locking the electronic bolts on the doors.
“We’re leaving,”
she decided.
“Now.”
“We can't wait for morning.”
We grabbed only the essentials—Hazel’s diaper bag,
the gray folder,
and a small suitcase I had packed days ago.
We didn't go out the front door.
We went through the basement,
into the garage,
and into my mother’s old,
unassuming sedan instead of her flashy SUV.
As we pulled out of the garage,
I saw one of the security guards looking toward us,
his hand moving to his radio.
“Go!”
I screamed.
My mother floored it,
the tires screeching as we sped down the driveway.
The black SUV at the end of the street suddenly came to life,
its headlights cutting through the dark like the eyes of a predator.
A high-speed chase through the winding streets of suburban Raleigh followed,
a terrifying blur of red lights and narrow escapes.
My mother drove with a ferocity I hadn't seen in years,
weaving through back alleys and cutting through a construction site to lose our tail.
When we finally reached the main highway,
the black SUV was nowhere to be seen.
I looked at Hazel,
who had miraculously slept through the entire ordeal.
“Where are we going?”
I asked,
my voice shaking.
“To the only place they won't look,”
my mother said,
her eyes fixed on the road.
“To your Aunt Sarah’s cabin in the mountains.”
“And Mallory,”
she added,
glancing at the folder on my lap.
“The moment we get there,”
“we’re calling the FBI.”
“Not the locals.”
May you like
“Not the state.”
“We’re going federal.”
