My husband dumped me unconscious outside an emergency room, then calmly told police I had attacked him. His mother pointed at the fingerprints around my throat and claimed I’d put them there myself, but neither of them knew a recorder hidden beneath my clothing had captured the moment Beckett strangled me and the chilling words his mother whispered while he did it.

The heavy wrought-iron gates of the Oakridge estate loomed out of the thick fog like the jaws of a forgotten tomb. The metal was rusted, covered in thick vines of ivy, but the electronic keypad beside the pillar was glowing with a fresh blue LED light.

Thompson pulled the SUV onto the gravel shoulder, killing the headlights.

"Power's running," Thompson noted, drawing his service weapon from its holster. "I called for backup, but local county sheriff units are twenty minutes away."

"We don't have twenty minutes," I said, stepping out into the chilly mountain air.

I walked up to the keypad. It was a dual-biometric scanner I had helped my father install when I was eighteen years old. I pressed my right thumb against the glass screen.

A high-pitched chime sounded, followed by a mechanical click.

“Access granted: Sarah Vance,” a synthesized voice announced from a hidden speaker.

The massive iron gates slowly swung open, creaking against their hinges.

We walked up the long, winding driveway toward the dark silhouette of the house. The grand three-story mansion looked completely abandoned, its windows dark and dusty. But as we rounded the western wing toward the basement bulkheads, I saw a thick bundle of black fiber-optic cables running directly into an old coal chute.

"Look," Claire whispered, pointing at a small security camera mounted near the roofline. Its red infrared lights were glowing brightly in the dim overcast light.

"They know we're here," Thompson warned, raising his gun. "Stay behind me."

We descended the concrete steps toward the heavy steel basement door. Thompson reached out and turned the handle.

It was unlocked.

As the door swung inward, the cold air of the autumn afternoon was instantly replaced by the hot, dry blow of industrial cooling fans, accompanied by the distinct, rhythmic hum of dozens of server blades spinning at maximum capacity.

Standing in the center of the brightly lit server room was a figure dressed in a sharp grey suit, holding a glowing tablet in his hands.

He turned slowly to face us.