THE CRADLE OF LIES: TRUTH BENEATH THE CRUSHING SILENCE

Mark pulled his truck onto the gravel shoulder, leaving the hazards flashing and headlights pointing down into the ravine. He vaulted the guardrail, his boots slipping on the muddy grass as he slid down the steep bank toward the crumpled vehicle.

The silver Transit van was resting on its driver's side, wrapped around the trunk of a massive oak tree. The front windshield was spider-webbed and punched through; the roof was crushed inward. Steam hissed violently from the cracked radiator.

"Claire!" Mark yelled, scrambling over tangled roots. "Can anyone hear me?!"

A faint, muffled groan answered from the cargo area. Mark reached the rear doors, but they were jammed tight by the warped frame. Grabbing a heavy, fallen branch, he wedged it into the seam of the doors and threw his entire body weight against it. With a groan of tearing metal, the right door popped open.

The interior smelled of spilled oil, copper, and damp upholstery.

Claire was pinned in the front seat, tangled in the crushed steering column and the deflated airbag. Blood trailed down her pale forehead, matting her hair against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open as Mark scrambled inside.

"Mark..." she breathed weakly, her gaze glassy, unfocused. "The... the boy..."

Mark looked behind the seats. In the second row, wedged beneath a dislodged bench, was a small figure wrapped in a dark jacket. Mark climbed over the debris, his heart in his throat, and gently pulled the wreckage away.

The boy was unconscious, his face covered in soot and minor scrapes, but his chest was rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. He looked so much like Mark at that age it was like looking at a ghost from his own childhood—the same dark curls, the same square jawline.

Mark checked his pulse. Strong and steady. "I've got you, buddy. I've got you," Mark whispered, wrapping the boy carefully in his wool coat.

He looked back at Claire. Her breathing was becoming shallow, ragged.

"Claire, hang on. I'm going to get you out."

"No time..." Claire coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of her lips. She reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing Mark’s forearm with surprising strength. "It wasn't Arthur's men..."

Mark stopped. "What?"