Chapter six: The Woman in the Mirror
995 Words
The knock at the cabin door echoed through the room.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
No one moved.
The old fisherman slowly backed away from the entrance, his weathered face drained of color. His wife instinctively gathered the younger villagers behind her, whispering a prayer beneath her breath.
Damian's pistol was already in his hand.
He looked at Isabella and spoke so quietly that only she could hear.
"Stay behind me. No matter what happens, don't come to the door."
Isabella nodded, though every nerve in her body screamed at her to run.
The voice outside came again.
"Open the door. We only want to ask a few questions."
No one answered.
A long silence followed.
Then footsteps retreated from the porch.
"Did they leave?" one of the villagers whispered hopefully.
Damian slowly approached the window and carefully lifted the edge of the curtain.
His expression hardened.
"No."
"What is it?" Isabella asked.
"They're surrounding the cabin."
Her stomach dropped.
Outside, dark figures moved silently through the trees. They carried flashlights, but their movements were too coordinated to be ordinary police officers.
They were hunting.
And they knew exactly where to look.
Another voice called out.
"Isabella Hart!"
She froze.
"We know you're inside."
"You can't run forever."
The room fell into complete silence.
The old fisherman looked at Damian.
"What do we do?"
Damian's eyes searched the cabin.
"There has to be another way out."
The elderly woman pointed toward the back room.
"The cellar."
Without wasting another second, Damian motioned for everyone to follow him.
They hurried through the narrow hallway into a small storage room filled with sacks of grain and old fishing equipment.
The old fisherman pulled aside a wooden shelf, revealing a square trapdoor hidden beneath it.
"I built this years ago," he said. "It leads to the riverbank."
Damian opened the hatch.
A narrow tunnel disappeared into darkness.
"You first," he told Isabella.
She climbed down carefully.
The air inside was damp and cold.
One by one, the others followed.
Just as Damian lowered himself into the tunnel—
The front door exploded inward.
"Search the house!"
Boots thundered across the wooden floor above them.
Damian quietly closed the trapdoor.
The tunnel plunged into darkness.
Only the sound of hurried breathing filled the cramped passage.
They moved slowly.
The tunnel seemed endless.
Several times they heard muffled footsteps directly overhead.
At one point, someone stopped.
The floorboards creaked.
Everyone froze.
Isabella held her breath.
If they discovered the trapdoor...
It would all be over.
After what felt like forever, the footsteps moved away.
Only then did they continue.
Finally, a faint light appeared ahead.
Fresh air rushed into the tunnel.
The old fisherman pushed open a rusted metal hatch hidden beneath thick bushes along the riverbank.
"We're out."
Everyone climbed into the cool night air.
The cabin stood about fifty meters away.
Through the trees, Isabella could see armed men searching every room.
One of them emerged carrying the newspaper that had contained the mysterious note.
He handed it to another man.
The leader unfolded it.
His eyes narrowed.
"She's remembered something," he said.
"We're running out of time."
Another man asked, "Should we inform Mr. Kingsley?"
The leader shook his head.
"No."
"Not until we find her."
Isabella's heart skipped.
Mr. Kingsley.
Alexander.
Her husband.
Why would these men report to him?
Was he truly involved?
Or were they using his name to frighten her?
Damian gently touched her shoulder.
"We have to keep moving."
The group followed the river until dawn began to brighten the horizon.
The villagers eventually stopped beside an old wooden bridge.
"This is as far as we can take you," the fisherman said.
"If anyone asks, we never saw you."
Damian shook his hand.
"Thank you."
The old man looked at Isabella.
"Be careful."
"Some people should never have been buried."
Then he and the others disappeared back into the forest.
For the first time since escaping the cemetery, Isabella and Damian were completely alone.
They crossed the bridge in silence.
On the other side stood a small roadside diner that had just opened for the morning.
Damian glanced around carefully.
"We'll blend in here."
Inside, the diner was warm and smelled of fresh coffee and bread.
Only a few customers sat at scattered tables.
No one paid them much attention.
A waitress approached with a friendly smile.
"What can I get for you?"
"Coffee," Damian replied.
"And breakfast for two."
The waitress nodded and walked away.
Isabella stared at the steaming cup placed before her.
"I can't stop thinking about what that man said."
"Which one?"
"'Should we inform Mr. Kingsley?'"
Damian remained silent.
"Do you think Alexander buried me alive?"
"I don't know."
"But until we know the truth, we can't rule anyone out."
Isabella lowered her eyes.
She wanted to believe her husband was innocent.
She wanted to believe there was some terrible misunderstanding.
But every clue pointed in the opposite direction.
Just then, the television mounted above the counter switched to the morning news.
The volume increased.
A smiling news anchor appeared on the screen.
"Breaking News."
"The Kingsley Foundation will hold its annual charity gala tonight, hosted by billionaire CEO Alexander Kingsley and his wife, Isabella Kingsley."
Isabella slowly looked up.
Her coffee cup slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.
Every customer turned toward the television.
The camera shifted to a live broadcast outside Kingsley Manor.
A black luxury car pulled into the driveway.
The door opened.
A beautiful woman stepped out wearing an elegant white dress.
She smiled and waved at the reporters.
The caption beneath the screen read:
ISABELLA KINGSLEY ARRIVES FOR TONIGHT'S CHARITY GALA.
The room began to spin.
Damian looked from the television to the woman sitting beside him.
Then back again.
The woman on the screen...
Had Isabella's face.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
The same voice.
She wasn't just pretending to be Isabella.
"If she's me..."
"...then who am I?"
- Writer
