Chapter 8 - The Reunion
It took two agonizing hours to reach the logging camp. Maya was running on pure adrenaline, her bare hands frostbitten, her feet numb inside Silas’s oversized boots.
When Silas finally pushed the door of the cabin open, Eleanor leaped to her feet, clutching the hunting knife Silas had left her.
When she saw the woman standing behind Silas, the knife dropped to the floor.
“Maya?” Eleanor whispered, her voice cracking with a pain so deep it defied description.
“Mom,” Maya sobbed.
The two women collided in the center of the tiny cabin, holding each other with a desperate, crushing grip. For four years, Eleanor had believed her daughter was dead, a thief, a runaway. Now, she was holding her, feeling her heartbeat against her own.
Maya looked down at the dusty cot. There, wrapped in the yellow quilt, was her beautiful, perfect baby boy.
She fell to her knees beside the cot, burying her face in the quilt, kissing his tiny cheeks, weeping tears of absolute, profound joy.
Silas stood by the door, keeping watch through the cracked window. He didn't want to ruin the moment, but he knew the truth.
“We have the drive,” Silas said quietly. “We have the confession. We just need to make it to the state police barracks in Bangor. They aren't on Victor’s payroll.”
Before Eleanor could answer, the roar of heavy engines echoed through the trees outside.
Silas looked out the window. His blood ran cold.
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Three black, armored SUVs were crashing through the snowdrifts, circling the logging camp. Dozens of armed men began pouring out of the vehicles.
And stepping out of the lead vehicle, wearing a heavy mink coat and holding a customized hunting revolver, was Victor Blackwood himself.
