Chapter 9 - DIANE’S OFFER
Diane sat behind the interview-room table wearing a county jail uniform.
Without her beige cardigan, she looked smaller.
Not weaker.
Only stripped of costume.
Her lawyer sat outside because she insisted on speaking to me privately.
Owen watched through the glass.
A camera recorded everything.
Diane smiled when I entered.
“You look tired.”
“Where is Claire?”
“Sit.”
I remained standing.
She folded her hands.
“You always confuse defiance with strength.”
“And you confuse cruelty with authority.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Your sister is alive.”
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“That word means nothing when you say it.”
Diane leaned back.
“Claire came willingly.”
“You lied to her.”
“I told her you needed help.”
“You planned to drug her.”
“She has always been more sensible than you.”
“Where is she?”
Diane looked at my stomach.
“You will not keep that baby.”
My hands clenched.
“You will never touch my child.”
“Mark is the father. His family has rights.”
“Mark is charged with attempted murder.”
“Charges disappear.”
“Laura’s body will not.”
For the first time, her face tightened.
“She was unstable.”
“You killed her.”
“Price gave the medication.”
“You kept the needle.”
“She attacked me with it.”
“Then why was her blood still on the point?”
Diane looked toward the one-way glass.
She knew Owen was listening.
So she changed tactics.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You don’t understand what Mark endured.”
There it was.
The mother protecting her son.
Even now.
“He watched you hurt me.”
“He was afraid.”
“He helped you imprison women.”
“He needed my guidance.”
“He asked what to do with my body.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Because you pushed him beyond reason.”
I leaned toward her.
“You turned him into a coward and called it love.”
She slapped the table.
The sound echoed through the room.
Then she smiled again.
“You still need me.”
“Why?”
“Claire has six hours of air.”
My blood froze.
Diane slid a photograph across the table.
Claire sat inside a narrow wooden box.
A clear tube entered through one side.
A digital timer rested beside her face.
05:42:17.
“She’s buried,” Diane said.
“Where?”
“Sign the property release.”
She placed documents beside the photograph.
They transferred my remaining inheritance, future insurance benefits, and custody rights over my unborn child to Blue Thread Holdings.
“Sign, and I give you the coordinates.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
She tapped the timer.
“I expect you to panic.”
I studied the photograph.
Claire’s left hand rested near her face.
Two fingers pointed upward.
One bent sideways.
A signal from childhood.
North.
Then I saw dirt beneath her fingernails mixed with tiny white stones.
The gravel around the old church cemetery north of the cabin.
Diane watched my face.
She realized I recognized something.
I grabbed the documents and pretended to read.
Then I began crying.
Not because I had broken.
Because I needed Diane to believe I had.
“Please,” I whispered. “Don’t hurt her.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
Control returned to her face.
“Sign.”
I picked up the pen.
Outside the glass, Owen waited.
I wrote three words across the signature line.
NORTH CHURCH CEMETERY.
Owen moved immediately.
Diane lunged across the table.
“You stupid girl!”
Officers entered and restrained her.
She screamed while I backed toward the door.
“You will bury your own sister!”
I looked at the timer.
Five hours remained.
May you like
But Diane had forgotten one thing.
Claire and I had survived our childhood by learning how to communicate without our parents understanding.
