Page 58 of In Her Path

“There’s no one out here to hear you scream,” Meredith said, her voice as calm as if she were discussing the weather. “But you can talk if you want. It seems only fair to give you one last word. I’ve always wondered what you’d say when there was no audience, no cameras, no voters to impress.”

Claire tried to form words, but her mouth was too dry, her throat too raw from the gag. She swallowed hard, wincing at the pain.

“Water,” she managed finally, the word barely audible.

Meredith considered for a moment, then reached for a bottle on the nearby crate. She unscrewed the cap and held it up toward Claire’s lips. Claire had to bend to reach, shaking the stool. Meredith reached out and steadied her long enough for a small swallow. The cool liquid was heaven against her parched throat.

“Thank you,” Claire whispered.

Meredith capped the bottle and set it down, glancing at the timer. “You have five minutes,” she said. “Then we finish this.”

Claire’s heart hammered. Five minutes to talk her way out of this—to make Meredith see reason, to make her understand. She’d spent her entire political career talking people into things, convincing them to see things her way. But she’d never done it with her life on the line.

“I understand why you’re angry enough to do this,” Claire said, forcing her voice to steadiness despite the fear that threatened to choke her. “And I remember Bruce Stanfield.”

Something flickered across Meredith’s face—surprise, quickly masked.

“I did see what happened to him,” Claire continued tearfully, in a choked voice. “At the council meeting. The way Paige and Holt treated him. The way everyone laughed.” She took a shaky breath. “And I did nothing. I moved the agenda along. I shut him down. I watched him walk out of that room with his head down, and I told myself it wasn’t my problem.”

Meredith’s expression remained neutral, but her eyes had darkened.

“What happened to Bruce...” Claire swallowed hard. “It was my fault as much as anyone’s. I saw his pain, and I ignored it. I was worried about how it would look if I took his side against senior council members. I was afraid it would cost me politically.” She met Meredith’s gaze directly. “My silence made me complicit in his death. I know that now.”

Claire had never spoken these words aloud—had never allowed herself to think them in the five years since Bruce’s suicide. The weight of them made her shoulders bend further, as if the admission had physical mass.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Claire said. “I’m not asking for anything. I just want you to know that I understand what I did.” Then her voice broke. “No, actually I beg you, please don’t let this be my end. Not like this.”

For a long moment, the only sound was Claire’s ragged breathing. Meredith stood perfectly still, her face unreadable in the shadows.

Then, high above them, there was the sound of gravel crunching under heavy tires—a vehicle arriving, rumbling to a stop. Claire’s gaze darted to the small phone strapped to the crate—its display flashed 0:45 in bright red digits. The numbers rapidly became smaller.

Meredith’s stance changed subtly—her shoulders stiffened, her head tilted slightly as she listened. Through the open hatch at the top of the stone steps, they could hear voices now, too distant to make out words but clearly human.

“The police,” Claire whispered. Hope flared in her chest, painful in its intensity. “They found us.”

Meredith didn’t answer immediately. She moved to the foot of the stairs, looking up at the square of gray light that marked the cellar’s entrance. Her profile was sharp in the lantern light, all the softness gone from her expression.

“I wonder if they’ll find us before the clock runs out,” Meredith continued. “Whether you’ll be dead by the time they find the way down here, or whether there will be an audience for your execution. I hadn’t planned on having company. But either way will satisfy me.”

Claire’s breath caught. “Meredith, please—“

“No more words. You’ve said enough.”

Claire could hear the sound of distant voices as the timer continued its inexorable count toward zero.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

As the patrol car jolted to a stop in the clearing, Jenna reached for the door handle. The old house—Harlan Soll’s place—was there before them, weathered and silent, its windows dark. No movement showed at the porch or in the rough yard.

They all got out of the car in a coordinated movement—Jenna and Jake with their weapons drawn. Frank turned in a circle, checking the whole property. Piper looked all around with the expression of someone who was seeing more than the physical landscape.

“Stay behind us,” Jenna told her sister quietly.

They moved toward the house in tight formation, Jenna and Jake slightly ahead, Frank flanking Piper. No sign of recent activity—no fresh tire tracks, no footprints.

“You think she’s here?” Jake asked, his voice low.

“Meredith’s car isn’t in the yard,” Jenna replied. “But if she wanted to hide it, there are a dozen places on this property where it wouldn’t be visible.”