“I know,” Maren interrupted. Her voice was flat, devoid of the hysterics I expected.
I froze. “What?”
Maren unlatched the chain and opened the door. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the glow of a laptop screen on a cheap wooden table. Code and encrypted files scrolled across the monitor.
“You think you’re the hero arriving in the nick of time, Rowan?” she asked, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You think I’ve been picking up aluminum cans for a year because I’m helpless?”
She walked to the laptop and hit a key. A video played. It was grainy night-vision footage of this exact farmhouse. The camera zoomed in through the window, resting on the twins sleeping in their crib. Then, a masked man stepped into the frame, resting a gloved hand on the crib railing before looking directly into the camera.
“Tessa sent me this a month ago,” Maren said, her eyes locked on the screen. “Along with a message. ‘Speak up about the girl, and the boys disappear just like she did.’”
