Chapter 2 - THE MIRROR IN THE DARK7
The high-beam headlights of the silver SUV sliced through the rain-slicked rear window of the taxicab, illuminating the frayed fabric of the front headrests in a harsh, cold white.
"Is that your mother?" Becca’s voice was a brittle whisper, barely audible over the hum of the taxi’s struggling six-cylinder engine. She was huddled against the passenger door, her small frame curled into a ball, clutching her backpack to her chest like a shield.
I didn't answer right away. I couldn't. My jaw was set so tight my teeth ached, and my heart was slamming against my ribs with the force of a trapped animal. I leaned forward, gripping the vinyl edge of the driver’s seat.
"Don't pull over," I told the driver. My voice sounded deeper, older than seventeen. "Whatever you do, do not stop."
The driver—a burly man named Sal with a thick beard and a faded Mets cap pulled low over his eyes—glanced at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were wide, the tired irritability he’d shown when we first got in completely wiped away by the unmistakable scent of danger.
"Kid, I don't know what kind of family drama you got going on, but I ain't getting shot over forty bucks," Sal grunted, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned ash-white. "That car behind us has been tailing us since we took the turn off Route 9. They aren't keeping distance. They’re closing in."
"She’s not going to shoot you," I lied. The truth was, I had no idea what my mother was capable of anymore. The woman who made pancakes on Sunday mornings and fussed over my college applications had vanished. In her place was the cold-eyed strategist I’d seen through the window of that SUV—a woman who had spent months laundering money under our roof while my father secretly built a federal case against her.
Where was Dad? The question burned in my mind, hot and agonizing. His phone went offline. Agent Reeves’ words echoed through my head. We are trying to confirm if he is alive.
"Zoe," Becca whimpered, reaching out to grab my sweatshirt sleeve. "Look!"
I spun around. The SUV had accelerated, creeping to within five feet of our rear bumper. Through the glare of the lights, I could see the silhouette of the driver. It was Mom. Her face was illuminated by the dashboard glow, entirely expressionless. She wasn't tailgating out of panic; she was executing a maneuver.
Bump.
The impact was sudden—a violent jolting thud that rattled my teeth and sent Becca’s water bottle rolling across the floorboards. Sal swore loudly, throwing his arm across the passenger seat to brace himself as the cab swerved across the center line.
"She’s crazy!" Sal yelled, stamping on the gas. The old Crown Victoria roared, its transmission slipping momentarily before catching and throwing us back against the seats. "That’s it, I’m calling the cops!"
"No!" I shouted, leaning over the seat. "No cops! If you call local police, she’ll know. Just drive us to the state highway. Please!"
"She just rammed my cab!"
"I’ll give you everything I have!" I fumbled in my pockets, pulling out the remaining rolled-up bills I’d pulled from my desk drawer. "Two hundred dollars! Just get us across the county line!"
Sal glanced at the wad of cash, then back at the mirror. Mom’s SUV was pulling up alongside us now, creeping into the left lane on the empty two-lane backroad. The dark tint of her side window rolled down inch by inch.
I leaned across Becca, pulling her down toward the floorboard. "Get down! Stay down!"
"Zoe, I'm scared—"
"I know, Becca. Just stay down!"
I looked out the window. Through the rain and the darkness, I met my mother’s eyes. She wasn't holding a gun. She was holding her phone up to the glass, showing me the screen.
It was a live video feed.
Even in the grainy, flickering resolution, I recognized the location instantly. It was the basement of our home—the small utility room behind the water heater where my dad kept his workbench. Sitting in an old wooden chair, his arms bound tightly behind his back with heavy plastic zip-ties, was my father. His face was bruised, a streak of dark blood running from his hairline down across his left cheek.
My stomach plummeted into a cold, bottomless void.
Mom didn't yell. She didn't look angry. She simply pointed at the phone, then pointed to the side of the road, signaling for us to pull over. The message was crystal clear: Stop the car, or he dies.
"Zoe?" Becca’s voice came from near my knees, small and terrified. "What is it? What do you see?"
"Nothing," I choked out, my eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall. "Keep your head down, Becca."
My mind raced through terrifying calculations. If Agent Reeves was right, Mom was part of a syndicate. She wasn't acting alone. Someone was holding my father in our basement right now. If I obeyed her and pulled over, she would take us back, use us as leverage against Dad to force him to hand over whatever evidence he’d gathered, and then... what? Would she really let us live once the FBI was involved?
“Do not trust your mother.”
Dad’s final text instruction burned in my brain. He knew she would use him. He knew she would use us. He had sent that text knowing the risks, choosing to protect us over saving himself.
"Sal," I said, my voice shaking violently, but my tone firm. "Don't stop."
Sal glanced back, horrified. "Kid, she’s crowding us off the shoulder! There’s a ditch coming up!"
"Heil the brakes," I hissed.
"What?"
"SLAM ON THE BRAKES NOW!"
Sal slammed his foot down on the pedal. The cab’s tires shrieked against the wet asphalt, the anti-lock system pulsing violently as the car skidded sideways.
Mom, expecting us to keep accelerating to match her speed, shot past us. The heavy SUV roared ahead, its tires spraying a blinding rooster-tail of rainwater across our windshield.
"Turn around!" I screamed. "Turn around!"
Sal spun the wheel hard. The heavy sedan spun 180 degrees, the rear bumper clipping the metal guardrail with a shower of sparks, before the tires found traction. Sal stomped the accelerator, and we launched back in the direction we had come, heading toward the interstate access ramp two miles back.
In the rearview mirror, I saw the red brake lights of Mom’s SUV flare in the dark. She was turning around. But we had gained a three-hundred-yard lead.
"Where are we going?!" Sal yelled, his hands trembling violently on the wheel. "Tell me where the hell we are going!"
I pulled out my phone, flipped it on just long enough to memorize the address Agent Reeves had given me, and then ripped the battery out—or tried to, until I remembered modern smartphones were sealed shut. I slammed the phone against the door handle until the glass shattered and the screen went black, throwing the broken pieces out the rain-slicked window.
"The field office," I whispered, pulling Becca up off the floor and holding her tightly against my side. Her body was shaking so hard I could feel her heartbeat through her sweater. "We're going to the FBI."
"And what about Dad?" Becca wept, her face pressed into my shoulder. "Zoe, what about Dad?"
May you like
I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring out into the pouring rain as the highway lights began to streak past us like falling stars.
"We're going to save him," I said. But deep inside, where the dark cold lived, I knew the truth: we were running out of time, and the mother I had loved my entire life was coming to hunt us down.
