The Smell of Turpentine

"You can't save everyone," Julian had said.

We were falling.

The wind roared in my ears, tearing the breath from my lungs. The ground below was a black void, rushing up to meet us.

I had pushed him.

I had done it.

I expected fear. I expected regret.

But as I fell, tumbling through the cold night air, all I felt was... clarity.

This was the ending.

My ending.

Not his.

I reached out.

My hand brushed against metal. Cold. Rusted.

The ladder.

We had fallen from the catwalk, but the ladder cage—the safety cage—was still there.

I grabbed it.

My arm wrenched in its socket. Pain exploded in my shoulder, white-hot and blinding. But I held on.

I swung, my body slamming against the metal rungs. *Clang.*

Julian fell past me.

He didn't scream. He didn't flail.

He just looked at me. His eyes locked on mine as he plummeted into the darkness.

And then...

*Thud.*

A wet, heavy sound. Like a sack of flour hitting concrete.

Silence.

I hung there, gasping, my fingers slipping on the wet metal. My shoulder was on fire.

"Elara!"

A voice from below.

Miller.

He was limping toward the tower, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom.

"Hold on!" he shouted. "I'm coming!"

I looked down.

The beam hit the ground.

It illuminated a crumpled shape.

Julian.

He was lying on a pile of old bricks. His limbs were twisted at unnatural angles. His head...

I looked away.

He was dead.

This time, he was really dead.

I closed my eyes.

"It's over," I whispered.

I started to climb down. Slowly. Painfully. One rung at a time.

When I reached the bottom, Miller was there. He caught me as I collapsed.

"You're okay," he said. "You're okay."

He looked at Julian's body. He shone the light on it.

"He's gone," Miller said. "It's over."

I looked at the body.

The architect. The editor. The husband.

He looked small. Broken.

"No," I said. "It's not over."

I pointed to the phone in his pocket. It had fallen out on impact. The screen was cracked, but it was still glowing.

"The package," I said. "Sloane."

Miller frowned. "What package?"

"He sent something to her apartment. Scheduled for tonight."

I grabbed Julian's phone. I tried to unlock it.

Face ID failed. His face was... unrecognizable.

"Passcode," I muttered. "I need the passcode."

I tried his birthday. *Failed.*

I tried our anniversary. *Failed.*

"Damn it."

I looked at Miller.

"We have to go to her apartment. Now."

"The paramedics are almost here," Miller said. "You're hurt."

"I don't care!" I screamed. "My sister is going to die!"

I started to run. Toward the road.

"Wait!" Miller yelled.

He limped after me.

"Take my car," he said, tossing me the keys. "It's faster."

I caught them.

"Thank you."

I ran to the cruiser. I jumped in.

I started the engine. The sirens wailed.

I peeled out of the lot, leaving Miller standing over Julian's body.

I drove like a maniac. Across town. Running red lights. Swerving around traffic.

My phone buzzed.

Sloane.

*I'm almost there. Traffic is bad.*

"Don't go inside," I whispered. "Please don't go inside."

I dialed her number.

It went to voicemail.

"Sloane, it's me. Don't go in the apartment. There's a package. It's a trap. Do not open the door."

I hung up.

I was five minutes away.

I pressed the accelerator to the floor.

The city blurred past me. Lights. Rain. Shadows.

I turned onto her street.

I saw her building. An old brownstone. Third floor.

I saw her car parked out front.

She was there.

I screeched to a halt. I jumped out.

"Sloane!" I screamed.

I ran to the front door. It was locked.

I pressed all the buzzers.

"Let me in! Fire! Let me in!"

A buzzer sounded. *Click.*

I pushed the door open. I ran up the stairs. Two at a time. My shoulder throbbed. My lungs burned.

Third floor.

Her door was closed.

I pounded on it. "Sloane! Open up!"

Silence.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

I stepped back. I kicked the door.

It splintered.

I kicked it again.

It flew open.

I burst inside.

"Sloane?"

The apartment was dark. Quiet.

And then I smelled it.

Not gas.

Not smoke.

*Flowers.*

White lilies.

Hundreds of them.

The room was filled with them. Every surface covered. Vases on the floor, on the table, on the couch.

It looked like a funeral parlor.

"Sloane?" I called out, my voice trembling.

I walked into the living room.

And there she was.

Sitting in the armchair.

She was holding a box. A cardboard box.

It was open.

She looked up at me. Her face was pale.

"Elara?" she whispered.

"Don't move," I said. "Don't touch anything."

I walked toward her.

"What's in the box, Sloane?"

She looked down at it.

"It's... it's a book," she said.

She lifted it out.

It was a manuscript.

Bound in leather.

*The Phoenix: A Study in Resurrection.*

*By Julian Vance.*

She opened the cover.

And a card fell out.

I picked it up.

It was a greeting card. Hand-written.

*To my beloved sister-in-law.*

*Thank you for playing your part.*

*The bomb is under the chair.*

I froze.

"Don't move," I said. "Don't move a muscle."

I knelt down. I looked under the chair.

There it was.

A pressure plate.

Wired to a block of C4.

And a timer.

*00:10.*

Ten seconds.

"Elara?" Sloane asked. "What is it?"

"We have to jump," I said. "Now."

"What?"

"Through the window. Now!"

I grabbed her arm. I pulled her up.

*Click.*

The pressure plate released.

The timer beeped.

*00:03.*

We ran for the window.

We threw ourselves through the glass.

We fell.

Three stories.

Into the dumpster below.

*BOOM.*

The apartment exploded above us.

Fire and glass rained down.

We lay in the garbage bags, coughing, shaking.

Alive.

Again.

I looked at Sloane. She was crying.

"He's dead," I said. "He's really dead this time. I saw him fall."

She nodded. She hugged me.

"It's over," she sobbed.

We climbed out of the dumpster. We sat on the curb, watching the fire trucks arrive.

The building was burning. The lilies were burning. The manuscript was burning.

It was finally over.

Or was it?

I reached into my pocket.

My burner phone.

It buzzed.

I stared at it.

It couldn't be.

He was dead. Miller confirmed it. I saw the body.

I opened the phone.

A text.

From *Private Number*.

*The Epilogue is always the hardest part.*

And a link.

I clicked it.

A video.

It wasn't a live stream. It was a recording.

A recording of me.

In the warehouse.

Shooting Aris.

But the angle was different.

It was from *behind* me.

Someone else was in the warehouse.

Someone filming.

The camera panned.

To a mirror.

And in the reflection...

I saw the person holding the camera.

It wasn't Julian.

It wasn't Aris.

It was a woman.

She lowered the phone. She looked into the mirror.

She smiled.

And I recognized her.

It was the woman from the photo album.

The one Julian said he "fixed" in Seattle.

The one who "died" in a house fire five years ago.

She wasn't dead.

She was his partner.

The video ended.

The screen went black.

And then... a new message appeared.

*Book 2: The Collaboration.*

*Coming soon.*

I looked up at the burning building.

I looked at Sloane.

"We have to go," I said.

"Where?" she asked. "The police are here. We're safe."

"No," I said. "We're not safe."

I stood up.

"He wasn't the author, Sloane. He was just the co-writer."

I looked at the darkness beyond the firelight.

"And she's still editing."