To communicate with the outside, the group had Arianna’s TracFone. Their own four cell phones, and Sam’s—traceable by satellite—were floating somewhere in the Hudson River, flung there from the West Side Highway during their drive uptown after the transfer. Credit cards, also, were traceable, so the Ericsons had liquidated their bank account in advance and stashed hundred-dollar bills galore into their suitcases. Arianna had not been able to do the same under Dopp’s close observation, and Trent had had zero time to prepare, so the money of both of them remained tied up in accounts; Trent worried that they would never be able to retrieve it without setting the Feds on their trail.
But most of all, he was striving to adjust to the new emotional paradigm of their lives. Sleep eluded him as he thought about Dopp’s bloodied face and lifeless eyes. Trent replayed the scene in his mind over and over: the feeling of the sweaty gun in his hand, the loud bang of the shot, the sudden smoking hole in Dopp’s forehead. This time, Trent thought, he really had become a murderer. Yet he knew he would do it the same way again. Dopp had fired the first shot—had escalated it to that level—and Trent was the only one who could fight back. Arianna had even called him a hero. Underneath his feelings of trauma and horror, there was no regret—only sadness.
And a constant, overshadowing worry about being caught. Paranoia was a powerful force: it was a vacuum that sucked away relief; it was a reason to wince at footsteps outside the door and to cringe before every news update on television. Would they ever be able to react any other way to the jarring beeps of a breaking news announcement? Yet the archaic television drew them in like campers around a fire, mesmerized by the flames they had sparked.
Trent felt a nudge in his side from Dr. Ericson, and looked up at the screen as a string of minor notes dinged. It was exactly 7 P.M., and the news anchor was staring into the camera, facing his audience with a palpable sense of dismay. The station’s tense opening music faded out before the anchor opened his mouth.
“Good evening, I’m Michael Bradley, and welcome to Channel Seven Eyewitness News. First up, an update about the so-called Embryo Gang, the ring of people who allegedly smuggled embryos into an abandoned church basement-turned-laboratory and then destroyed them for research purposes. Gideon Dopp, the New York City Director of the Department of Embryo Preservation, was shot dead after he discovered the hidden laboratory on Friday night through a covert investigation, and confronted the gang in the fertility clinic from which they had been stealing the embryos. The confrontation also resulted in the death of one gang member, a man whom police are still working to identify. The remaining members—at least four people—fled the scene and remain at large as authorities continue the search. The fertility clinic in question has since been shut down.
“News of the violence and the revelation of the lab sent ripples through Albany, where state legislators reconvened this morning for budget negotiations, opening the day with a minute of silence for Mr. Dopp. Senate Majority Leader Chuck Windra released a statement calling his death ‘a heinous murder’ and the hidden lab ‘deeply disturbing.’ Mr. Windra said he believed the lab’s discovery would ‘give other lawmakers like myself an impetus to reexamine the state’s law enforcement priorities before passing the budget, so that we can best protect all of the innocent citizens of the State of New York.’”
“I’ve had it,” Trent snapped. He turned away from the screen, overcome with a nagging worry.
“We can’t hide here forever,” Dr. Ericson said, clicking off the TV and sitting down on the bed. “Once they figure out who Sam is, they’ll be able to trace him to this apartment.…”
“I was just thinking that,” Trent replied, looking at Emily, who nodded and plunked down on the bed next to her husband. “With DNA testing,” he added, “I doubt we have long.”
“Let’s not discuss this in front of Arianna right now,” Emily said. “But we have to figure something out.”
“I’m sure we can.” Trent furrowed his brow. “We’ve come this far.”
“Fake passports,” Dr. Ericson said. “We get them off the black market through Megan, and then she drives us up to Canada. We just need to get over the border.”
“Sounds about right,” Trent said, feeling a thrill go through him. Over the border to freedom.
“And then what?” Emily asked.
“Then,” Trent said, “we live our lives.” For a fleeting moment, he had an image of waking up in bed next to Arianna in the privacy of their own home. A home they could leave whenever they wanted. “I can’t wait,” he added.
“The sooner, the better,” Dr. Ericson agreed. “We’ll make the plans, and then we’ll tell Arianna once everything is in place. It’ll give her more time to stabilize.”
Trent nodded. “I’m going to go check on her, and then we can get started right away.” He walked toward the door that separated the two rooms.
“Trent, wait,” Emily said. She traded a glance with Dr. Ericson, who nodded. Then she yanked open the top drawer of the antique dresser and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Here,” she said, handing it to Trent. “I’ve been thinking about giving this to her, but I wanted to wait until she was relatively stabilized. I think you should see it first.”
“What is it?”
“A letter Sam wrote. It was lying near his feet after … after he was shot … and I picked it
