Too Late, Mr. Johnston: She Is Gone

Kara was a prisoner in the guest wing. Davin had confiscated her car keys and instructed the security team not to let her leave the grounds.

She sat by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass. The grey sky mirrored her internal landscape.

Her mind drifted back ten years. To the night her life ended and this purgatory began.

The charity gala. The rain was falling just like this. Her mother, Grace, was behind the wheel. Kara was in the back seat. The car had hydroplaned. Or that's what the police report said. Kara remembered the brakes screaming, the feeling of weightlessness.

Then the impact.

She remembered crawling out of the wreckage, seeing Victoria Johnston's car crushed against the barrier. She remembered a teenage Davin standing in the rain, his tuxedo soaked, staring at his mother's lifeless body.

He had looked up and locked eyes with Kara. The hatred in his gaze had burned her then, and it burned her now.

A knock at the door snapped her back to the present.

A maid entered, carrying a tray with a cold sandwich. She set it on the floor without a word and left, locking the door from the outside.

Kara stared at the food. She wasn't hungry, but the nausea from the chemotherapy was rising. She forced herself to eat a bite of the dry bread.

Laughter drifted up from the floor below. A woman's laugh. High, tinkling, fake.

Alyse.

Kara crept to the door and pressed her ear against the wood.

"Oh, Davin, this painting is perfect here," Alyse was saying. "Victoria would have loved it. You have such an eye."

"She knows her taste," Davin replied. His voice was soft. A tone he never used with Kara.

Kara's grip on the doorknob tightened until her knuckles cracked. Alyse was wearing a mask, playing the role of the perfect socialite, while Kara was locked away like a dirty secret.

"Is she still upstairs?" Alyse asked. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Yes," Davin said.

"Don't be too hard on her, Davin. You know Grace... maybe the madness is genetic."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"She better pray Arthur stays alive," Davin said coldly. "He is the only reason she is still breathing in my house."

Kara slid down the door until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text from Julian.

Arthur is stable but they cut the meds. I paid for three days out of pocket. I can't do more. You need to fix this.

Kara stared at the screen. Three days.

She stood up. She went to her closet and pulled out a hidden suitcase. Inside the lining, she found a small USB drive. It contained the digital patterns for the S. Anders bridal collection. Her secret identity. Her art. And, most importantly, her off-the-books emergency fund, a business completely firewalled from her activities as The Ghost.

If she couldn't hack the money, she would sell the designs.

She opened her laptop. No signal.

She checked the Wi-Fi settings. Blocked. Davin's IT team had blacklisted her MAC address.

She had to get out. Physically.

Kara changed into black leggings and a hoodie. She waited until the house was quiet. She opened the window. It was a second-story drop, but there was a trellis covered in ivy.

She climbed out. The rain soaked her instantly, chilling her to the bone. Her weakened muscles trembled as she descended. A sharp, tearing pain shot through her abdomen with every move, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Adrenaline and desperation were the only things keeping her from collapsing.

She hit the grass and ran toward the back gate.

Sirens blared. Floodlights snapped on, blinding her.

Kara froze.

Davin walked out onto the back patio. He was holding a glass of red wine. He looked like a king surveying a peasant.

"Going somewhere?" he called out. "Or just going to meet your lover?"

Kara shielded her eyes from the light. "I need to see my grandfather."

Davin walked down the stone steps. He approached her slowly. The rain matted his hair to his forehead, making him look wild.

"You don't leave this house without my permission."

He reached out and grabbed the silver chain around her neck. It was her mother's locket. The only thing she had left of Grace.

"Murderer's gold," Davin spat. "It doesn't belong here."

He yanked. The chain snapped.

The locket flew from his grasp, a silver glint in the harsh floodlights, and disappeared into the dark, manicured shrubbery near the garage.

Kara screamed. She didn't care about her dignity. She stumbled toward the bushes, dropping to her knees and digging through the wet leaves and branches.

Davin watched her, his expression unreadable.

"Pathetic," he muttered, and turned back to the house.