Chapter 3The Wrong Road to a Perfect Revenge

The ten-minute drive felt like a descent into hell.

If the chat was wrong, I was murdering my son. I was failing the only person who truly loved me. But there was no turning back now. The landslide had cut off the connecting trails.

I rounded the final bend and saw it.

A black SUV was crumpled against a cedar tree, half-buried under shale.

"Toby? TOBY!"

I leapt from the ambulance, grabbing my kit. The car was upside down. Inside, strapped into his car seat, was a small, limp body. Blood covered his face, matted into his blonde curls.

But on his wrist, peeking out from a torn sleeve, was a small, heart-shaped birthmark.

My son.

"Ma... Mommy..."

Toby’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and red. He tried to smile, showing a tiny chipped tooth. "Daddy didn’t lie... he said... he said he’d send you..."

The air left my lungs in a silent scream. Mark... you monster.

I went into professional mode, my hands shaking but precise. I used the hydraulic shears to peel back the door, stabilized Toby’s neck, and pulled him into the light. He was four years old, and as I bandaged a deep gash on his leg, he didn't cry. He just looked at me.

"Is Daddy okay?" he whispered. "When the rocks hit... a big stone squished his leg. He crawled out... told me to stay still."

[Poor kid. He still thinks his dad is a hero.]

[Mark was going to let him die. He waited until Toby was pinned, then called Nora to the other road so he’d have an alibi.]

I tightened the gauze, my heart turning into a cold, hard stone. "Don't worry about him, Toby."

"Is he safe?"

"Oh," I said, my voice dripping with a lethal calm. "Daddy is just fine."

I got Toby into the back of the ambulance. As I started the engine, Mark’s voice crackled through the headset again. "Nora? Did you find him? Did you get to the West Road?"

The tension in his voice was palpable. Expectant.

I looked at my son in the rearview mirror. I needed to know the depth of the rot.

"Mark," I said, my voice raspy. "You’re absolutely sure about the West Road?"

"I’m certain," Mark snapped, his tone ironclad.

"I was the one driving the car, Nora! I was there when it went over the West ridge! Why are you asking me this? Did you screw up? Did you go the wrong way?"

My hand cramped on the wheel. "No."

I heard him exhale—a long, ragged sound of relief. "And the boy? Is he... is he okay?"

"I got him out. He’s stabilized. I’m transporting him to the ER now."

"Thank God..." Mark sounded like he was collapsing. In the background, I heard voices.

"Mr. Blackwood, you need to sit down. Your leg is still bleeding."

"I can't," Mark’s voice came through, performative and loud for the benefit of the other rescuers. "I won't rest until I know my boy is safe. My wife is the best driver we have... if anyone can save our son, it’s her."

I listened to the strangers around him murmuring about what a devoted father he was. What a beautiful family we had.

The bile rose in my throat. He wasn't hovering over the radio for Toby. He was waiting for news of Sloane’s son.

I keyed the mic. "Mark, I’m heading to the hospital. Is there anyone else on the other road? Do we need to send a second unit?"

There was a pause. A beat too long.

"No," Mark said. "The East Road was clear. No one else was involved."

My heart didn't just break; it shattered into a million jagged shards.

"Understood," I said. "Heading to the hospital."

"Good. Hurry, Nora. That boy can’t wait."

He didn't even use Toby’s name. That boy.

I hung up and drove.