The Dead Wife's Spectacular Secret Return

Cassidy dragged her body through the dark, narrow HVAC duct. The metal was freezing. Dust coated her throat, making her want to cough, but she bit her hand to keep quiet.

The sharp edges of the metal joints scraped against her bare knees. Warm blood trickled down her legs, but she didn't stop moving.

She looked down through a slotted vent. Below her, men in black suits were running in circles. Clinton's voice boomed from their radios.

Cassidy kept crawling. She found a maintenance hatch that looked loose. She pushed her thin shoulder against the metal grate. It popped open with a dull thud.

She slipped through the hole and fell into a dark supply closet.

Her ankle twisted hard when she hit the floor. A sharp pain shot up her leg. Tears filled her eyes. She gasped, quickly covering her mouth with both hands. She dragged herself behind a row of mop buckets.

Footsteps pounded outside the door. The handle turned. Two guards shined flashlights into the closet. The bright beam swept over the buckets, missing her by inches.

"Clear," one of them grunted. They slammed the door shut.

Cassidy let out a shaky breath. She waited until the footsteps faded. She pushed herself up, putting her weight on her good leg. She limped out of the closet.

She avoided the main hallways. She knew how to hide from cameras. She had learned it living in the Sinclair mansion.

At the end of a long corridor, she saw a glass door leading to an outdoor courtyard. The afternoon sun poured through the glass. It looked warm.

Cassidy pushed the heavy door open. The cold autumn wind hit her face. It smelled like dead leaves. Her head was spinning from the fever.

The courtyard was completely empty. The lockdown had cleared everyone out. Only a stone fountain bubbled in the center.

Cassidy limped toward the fountain to hide behind the statue. Her vision started to blur. Her body shook violently.

Then, she heard it. The steady, calm click of high heels on the stone path.

Cassidy peeked around the statue. A woman in a beige trench coat was walking toward her, looking down at a cell phone.

Panic seized Cassidy. She thought it was someone coming to lock her back in the white room. She tried to step backward, but her foot slipped on a patch of wet moss.

She fell forward.

She didn't hit the hard stone. She crashed into something soft.

Catherine dropped her phone the second she saw the child falling. She dropped to her knees and caught the girl against her chest.

The impact knocked them both onto the damp grass. Mud smeared across Catherine's coat. Her phone tumbled harmlessly onto a soft patch of damp moss nearby.

Cassidy screamed. She pushed her small hands against Catherine's chest, fighting like a trapped animal.

Catherine looked down. She saw the pale face, the terrified eyes, the bleeding knees.

Her heart stopped. The breath left her lungs. It was the face from the photograph.

Catherine grabbed Cassidy's arms and pulled her tight against her chest. She wrapped her arms around the small body. Tears exploded from Catherine's eyes, soaking into the shoulder of the hospital gown.

Cassidy froze. The woman was crying.

Then, Cassidy smelled it. A faint, sweet scent of chamomile.

The smell bypassed her panicked brain and hit something deep inside her memory. Her tight muscles suddenly went completely loose.

Cassidy stopped fighting. She slowly lifted her hands and grabbed the lapels of the beige coat. She buried her face in the woman's neck.

Catherine felt the small hands holding onto her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in Cassidy's hair. She let out a broken, quiet sob. She rubbed her hand up and down the girl's back.

Cassidy's hot tears burned Catherine's skin. "I'm so tired," Cassidy whispered into her neck.

The glass doors of the courtyard exploded open.

Clinton burst through the doors, followed by three guards. He saw the two figures on the grass. His hand ripped the pistol from the holster of the guard beside him.

Catherine heard the noise. She snapped her head up.

She shoved Cassidy behind her back, shielding the child with her own body. Catherine glared at Clinton. Her eyes were wild, filled with pure, murderous rage.