At exactly 1:58 a.m., my 8-year-old granddaughter called me whispering that she felt burning hot — and when I broke into my son's empty house, I found her drugged on the hallway floor, her brother locked inside a closet, and a note on the counter warning me not to believe her about it.

By 5:00 a.m., the sky was a bruised shade of purple. Rain had begun to fall, a steady, freezing drizzle that slicked the asphalt of the winding mountain roads.

I couldn't stay at the hospital. My sister had arrived to watch over Lily and Mason, leaving me free—or driven—to hunt down the truth. Detective Vance had urged me to stay put, but I couldn't sit in a plastic chair waiting for phone updates while my son's life hung in the balance. I knew where that cabin was. Brian and I had built the wooden porch on it fifteen years ago when Marissa's father was still alive.

I drove my truck up the narrow, unpaved gravel track of Pine Ridge Road. The headlights cut through the thick fog, reflecting off the wet pine needles that carpeted the path.

The cabin sat at the dead end of the ridge, surrounded by towering hemlocks.

As I pulled up fifty yards away and cut my lights, my heart sank.

Parked in the mud beside the cabin was a black pickup truck—the same truck Brian had purchased six months ago.

The cabin windows were dark, but a faint curl of smoke rose from the stone chimney. Someone was inside.

I pulled a heavy iron tire iron from beneath the back seat of my truck and stepped out into the rain. The cold water soaked through my jacket instantly, but I didn't feel it. Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and demanding.

I crept up the porch steps, avoiding the third plank that I knew creaked loudly. I slid along the wall until I reached the side window that looked into the living area.

Inside, illuminated only by the dying orange embers of a fireplace, was Marissa.

She was sitting at a wooden table, a laptop open in front of her. She was wearing a rain parka, her hair tied back in a messy knot. On the table beside her was a stack of passports, several bank tokens, and a small handgun.

She was typing frantically, her face pale and stressed.

I looked around the room, scanning the shadows. In the far corner, lying motionless on a ratty corduroy sofa, was a figure wrapped in a heavy tarp.

Brian.

My blood ran ice cold. Was he breathing? I pressed my forehead against the damp glass, trying to see if the blue plastic tarpaulin was rising and falling. Nothing. He lay completely still.

Suddenly, a door in the back of the cabin snapped open.

A tall man stepped into the living room carrying a heavy duffel bag. It was Victor—Marissa's older brother. The "aunt" they were supposedly visiting was a lie; Victor was the accomplice Julian had seen at the house.

"The wire transfer is taking too long," Victor growled, setting the bag down on the floor. "We need to burn the truck and get to the airstrip now. The cops found the kids, Marissa. My scanner says the police are already at your house."

Marissa didn't look up from her laptop screen. "I just need ten more minutes. Arthur’s company accounts require two-factor authorization sent to Brian's phone. I'm bypassing the secondary security protocol now."

"Forget the rest of the money!" Victor snapped, reaching out and slamming the laptop lid down. "We have three hundred grand in cash in this bag! That's enough to get us into Mexico! If we stay here, we're going to prison for murder!"

"He's not dead yet!" Marissa screamed, standing up so fast her chair fell backward onto the rug. "He's just heavily sedated! If he dies before the transfer completes, the bank locks the corporate account automatically! You think I spent two years planning this just to walk away with peanuts?"

Hearing her speak about my son like a ledger entry broke something inside me.