He didn’t think about doctors. He didn’t think about misdiagnoses. The small lock on the clamp told him the truth before anything else could. Desperate, he searched beneath the fabric, under the lining… until he found it—a tiny key taped in place where no grieving person would ever think to look.
He tore it free.
Unlocked one clamp… then the other.
The moment Camila was free, she didn’t cry. She clung to his neck with desperate strength, like she didn’t fully believe she was safe… like someone might take her away again at any second.
“We’re leaving,” he whispered, wrapping her in his black coat.
She buried her face against his shoulder.
“Dad said if I made noise… it would get worse.”
Ernest’s blood ran cold.
Downstairs, the front door opened. A man’s voice echoed—calm, casual—speaking on the phone as if nothing were wrong.
As if they weren’t about to bury his daughter alive.
Jason Cole. Camila’s father.
Ernest clenched his jaw. Around him were funeral wreaths, the heavy scent of flowers, a framed photo of Camila smiling. Everything was ready.
Ready to bury her.