Chapter Thirty-Six: The Address Leaks
The knock came at the wrong time.
Not loud. Not urgent.
Just deliberate.
Three slow taps against the metal door.
Margret froze with the cup halfway to her lips. Lucia looked up from the table, her heart instantly racing. They both knew—without saying a word—that something had shifted.
No one knocked like that.
Not neighbors. Not delivery men. Not in a building where people preferred to stay invisible.
Lucia stood slowly. "I'll check," she whispered.
Margret grabbed her wrist. Her grip was weak, but desperate. "No."
The knock came again. Three taps. Same rhythm.
Margret's eyes darted to the window, then to the door, then to the small bag she always kept ready beneath the bed. Her breath shortened.
"Stay quiet," she murmured.
They didn't move.
After a long moment, footsteps retreated.
Lucia exhaled shakily. "Maybe it's nothing."
Margret didn't answer. She crossed the room, peering through the thin curtain. A black sedan sat across the street, engine running. The same one.
Her chest tightened.
"It's begun," she said.
The leak didn't come with alarms or headlines.
It came through silence.
That afternoon, Margret went to the clinic and noticed the nurse hesitate before calling her name—the wrong name. The name Margret had stopped using years ago.
At the market, a man stared too long, pretending to browse while watching Lucia in the reflection of the freezer glass.
At night, Lucia's phone buzzed with a message from Eli.
Eli:Are you home?
Lucia stared at the screen, blood rushing in her ears.
She didn't reply.
By evening, Margret knew.
Someone had given them up.
She sat on the edge of the bed, body aching, mind sharp with fear. She replayed every interaction. Every face. Every moment of carelessness.
The boy.
Her stomach twisted.
Lucia came in quietly. "Mum… I think he knows."
Margret looked at her daughter—older now, sharper, burdened by truths no teenager should carry.
"Did you tell him anything?" Margret asked gently.
Lucia shook her head, tears gathering. "No. But he asked about the street. About the building. I didn't answer."
Margret closed her eyes.
It didn't matter.
Once a trail existed, David's men would follow it to the end.
Across the ocean, David received the call while reviewing documents in his office.
"We have the address," the man said.
David leaned back slowly, relief and satisfaction twisting together in his chest. "Are you certain?"
"Yes. Confirmed. Same woman. Same child."
A pause.
"And Margret?" David asked.
"She's alive. Not well."
David smiled thinly. "Good."
He ended the call and stood, straightening his jacket.
"At last," he murmured. "You ran out of places to hide."
That night, Margret packed again—but slower this time.
Her hands shook too badly.
Lucia folded clothes with mechanical precision, her mind racing. "We can leave tonight."
Margret shook her head. "Not like this. They're watching."
Lucia's voice broke. "Then what do we do?"
Margret sat heavily on the bed. The truth pressed down on her, undeniable now.
"We prepare," she said. "For whatever comes next."
Lucia swallowed. "Does that mean… facing him?"
Margret met her eyes. For the first time, there was no denial left.
"Yes."
Lucia felt fear, but beneath it—something else.
Resolve.
At dawn, a note was slipped under their door.
No name. No threats.
Just one line, typed.
We know where you are.
Lucia's hands trembled as she read it.
Margret took the paper, her face pale but calm.
"They want me afraid," she said. "They want me to make a mistake."
Lucia clenched her fists. "You won't."
Margret looked at her daughter, really looked at her—at the strength David never saw, the courage born from years of survival.
"No," she said quietly. "I won't."
Outside, the black sedan pulled away slowly.
The hiding place was gone.
The hunt was no longer distant.
And for the first time since they ran, Margret understood something clearly:
This story would not end with escape.
It would end with truth—or blood.