Chapter 2

Chloe's POV

They tied our hands behind our backs.

Zip ties — the kind that bit straight into the bone of your wrists. One of the men pulled the rear door open and dragged me out of my seat. Not rough, exactly, but with zero margin — the kind of efficiency you use when you're moving cargo, not people. Linda was on the other side. I heard the scrape of her heels across the asphalt as they pulled her out, and then silence.

They walked us into an abandoned motel off the highway. The neon sign had been dead for years — just a rusted frame hanging over the entrance, the word "VACANCY" eaten down to half its letters. They pushed us into chairs, didn't bother blindfolding us, didn't bother explaining anything.

Not blindfolding us usually means one of two things. Either you're not a threat worth managing, or they're not planning to let you leave. I sat in that chair and kept my breathing steady enough to hide the trembling, and scanned the room. Three men. One at the door, two inside. The one at the door kept checking his watch.

They were waiting for something.

About twenty minutes later, the man in charge walked over and turned his phone screen toward me.

My mother's number.

"You talk," he said. "Let her know you're here."

I looked at the number. Didn't move.

"You don't talk," he said, pulling the phone back, his eyes sliding to Linda for a second, "we find another way to prove it. More hands-on."

He didn't hand it over. He held it up to my ear himself, one thumb on the screen, the other hand braced on the back of my chair. Already dialing, already ringing. I heard the line connect, and then my mother's voice —

"Mom. It's me."

Two seconds of silence.

"Chloe." Her voice was low and pressed flat. "Where are you right now?"

"I don't know," I said. "A motel off the highway. Linda's here too. Neither of us is hurt."

"Okay," she said. Just that one word, but I knew she was listening, cataloguing, compressing every detail into the back of her mind. "They made you call."

Not a question.

"Yes."

The man in charge reached over and took the phone, switched it to speaker, and set it on the table. He settled into a chair, legs crossed, like he was running a meeting.

"Dr. Harper," he said. "Your daughter and your assistant are both with us. They're safe — for now."

Silence from the other end.

"You know what we want."

Still nothing. He glanced at the screen to confirm the call was still live, then continued. "The complete synthesis protocol for the Eden Sequence. Give it to us, and they go home tonight."

"…How did you find them?" My mother's voice came through — flat, steady, a little too steady.

"That's not relevant."

"It's relevant to me."

He paused, like he hadn't expected that. "Doctor, that's not what we're discussing right now —"

"How long have you been following me?" She cut him off, no shift in her tone at all. "Since the lab, or longer?"

"Doctor." A hairline fracture opened in his voice, just the one. "I'd suggest you focus on the things you can actually control."

Silence again from her end.

I sat there with my wrists locked behind me and listened — listened to my mother on the other end of that line, running calculations I couldn't see. She wasn't asking whether they'd release us. She wasn't asking what they wanted. She was asking where the leak was. She was mapping the damage, not negotiating.

"I need time," she finally said. "The formula isn't a file. It's not something I can just send you right now —"

"You have six hours."

"Six hours isn't enough."

"Dr. Harper —"

"I said six hours isn't enough," she repeated, same tone, no variation. "What you want requires me to go back to the lab, go through the data, and work. If you actually want it, give me enough time to go get it."

The man in charge glanced at the guy by the door. The guy gave a small shrug.

"Twenty-four hours," he said. "Doctor, I hope you understand — when the clock runs out, we'll make a second call. And your daughter won't be the one answering it."

Another silence.

Then my mother said: "Understood."

One word. Then the line went dead.

He pocketed the phone and looked back at us without a word. The lamp was still on, pressing our shadows flat against the floor.

Time kept moving.

Then his phone rang again. He took it, moved to the corner, voice lower than before. The call lasted under a minute. When he hung up, he stood in that corner for nearly ten seconds without moving.

Then he turned around. His eyes were different.

"The doctor is dead."

He said it the way you'd report a weather update. Flat. Factual. Nothing behind it.

I heard Linda make a sound — very small, like something had cracked apart somewhere in her throat. I didn't make any sound at all. I sat in that chair and felt the air go heavy, pressing down on my chest like a hand placed there — not to comfort, just to check whether the heartbeat was still running.

It was. Slow, but running.

"Car accident," he added. "Route 66. Ten minutes ago."

The dizziness came in waves. I fixed my eyes on the patch of light the lamp threw across the floor and kept them there, locked on that one spot, until the edges stopped moving.

Ten minutes ago. Which meant she was already gone minutes after she hung up that phone — and I was still counting exits. Still watching the guy at the door check his watch. Still thinking the worst thing in this room was the zip ties cutting into my wrists.

I kept staring at that patch of light. It didn't move. Neither did I. I was waiting for something to break open inside me — grief, or rage, or just the simple animal fact of loss. Nothing came. Just that weight on my chest, and the lamp, and the silence where her voice used to be.

Then I looked up.

I watched the man in charge settle back into his chair, his tone shifting — the way someone shifts when a problem stops being urgent and starts being administrative.

"Alright," he said. "Change of plans." His eyes moved to Linda. "You first. Where's the formula?"