Blindness

I ran for the door.

Not the back door to the yard—it was blocked by fire. The side door. The one that led to the mudroom and the garage.

"Come out!" Julian screamed. He wasn't behind me. He was still in the kitchen, trapped by his own inferno.

I burst into the mudroom. It was dark, smelling of wet wool and potting soil. I fumbled for the lock on the garage door.

My fingers slipped. Sweat? Blood?

I wiped them on my dress.

*Click.*

The door opened.

I stepped into the garage.

It was cool. Quiet.

My car was there. My Toyota Camry. A sensible car. A safe car.

But it wasn't going anywhere.

Julian had taken the battery out. I saw it sitting on the workbench, a black plastic brick of uselessness.

But next to it...

A jerry can.

Red. Plastic.

The same kind he used for the lawnmower.

I unscrewed the cap.

Gasoline.

The smell hit me like a physical blow. Sharp. Volatile.

I looked at the door to the mudroom. Smoke was curling under it. The fire was spreading fast.

I looked at the garage door. The big one.

I hit the button on the wall.

Nothing.

The power was out. Or he had disabled it.

I ran to the door. I grabbed the manual release cord. I pulled.

It was stuck.

Or locked.

He had engaged the slide lock. The one he installed "for extra security."

I was trapped.

In a box full of gasoline fumes, attached to a burning house.

"Think, Elara. Think."

I looked around the garage.

Tools. Saws. Drills.

A sledgehammer.

It was leaning against the wall. Heavy. Iron.

I grabbed it.

I dragged it to the side door—the pedestrian door that led to the driveway.

It was locked too. Deadbolted.

I swung the hammer.

*Crack.*

The wood splintered.

I swung again. And again.

The doorframe gave way.

I kicked the door open.

Rain.

Beautiful, freezing rain.

I stumbled out onto the driveway.

I fell to my knees, gasping. The air was clean. Cold.

I looked back at the house.

The kitchen was fully engulfed now. Flames were shooting out of the windows, licking up the siding. The roof was smoking.

"Elara!"

A voice. From the front yard.

I froze.

Julian?

No. He was inside. Trapped.

Unless...

I crawled around the side of the garage. I peeked around the corner.

A figure was standing in the front yard.

Watching the fire.

He wasn't running. He wasn't calling for help.

He was just standing there.

It was Elias.

My neighbor.

He was wearing a bathrobe and rain boots. He was holding...

A notebook.

He was writing.

In the rain. By the light of my burning house.

"Elias!" I shouted.

He jumped. He spun around.

"Elara?"

He ran toward me.

"Oh my god. I thought you were inside."

"He tried to kill me," I gasped. "He set the fire."

Elias grabbed my arm. "Come on. My house. It's safe."

He pulled me toward the hedge.

We scrambled through the gap. Into his yard.

We ran up to his porch.

He unlocked his front door. We fell inside.

The air in his house was warm. Stale. It smelled of old paper and cat litter.

He locked the door. Deadbolt. Chain.

"Sit," he said, guiding me to a armchair. "I'll get water."

He disappeared into the kitchen.

I looked around the room.

It was a mess. Stacks of newspapers. Boxes.

But the walls...

The walls were covered.

Photos. Maps. Post-it notes.

I stood up. My legs were shaking.

I walked to the nearest wall.

It was a map of the neighborhood. Verdant Hills.

Red strings connected different houses.

Our house. Elias's house. The empty lot down the street.

And photos.

Photos of Julian. Photos of me.

Photos of us... before.

Me at the coffee shop. Julian at the hardware store.

And dates.

*June 12: Contact initiated.*

*July 4: First date.*

*August 15: Proposal.*

It wasn't a stalker shrine.

It was a timeline.

A dossier.

"What is this?" I whispered.

"Water," Elias said.

He was standing in the doorway. Holding a glass.

And a gun.

A small, silver pistol.

"Sit down, Elara."

I stared at him.

"You knew," I said. "You knew everything."

"I suspected," he said. "I've been watching him for years. Since the last house."

"The last house?"

"In Seattle," Elias said. "The girl who died in the fire. I was her neighbor too."

My blood ran cold.

"You followed him?"

"I'm writing a book," he said. He smiled. A shy, apologetic smile. "True crime. It's a very popular genre."

"You let him do this?" I screamed. "For a book?"

"I needed the ending," he said. "The climax. The fire."

He gestured with the gun.

"Drink the water."

I looked at the glass.

"No."

"Elara, please. Don't make this a tragedy. I prefer a survival story."

"Then let me go."

"I can't," he said. "Not yet. The police will be here soon. I need you to stay until they arrive."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, "you're the twist."

He took a step forward.

"Julian is dead. He died in the fire. A tragic accident. But you... you survived. You're the grieving widow who inherits the estate."

"I don't want the estate."

"But *I* do," Elias said.

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a paper.

The codicil.

The one Julian had tried to make me sign.

"How did you get that?"

"Julian dropped it," he said. "On the porch. When he ran back inside to get you."

Wait.

Julian ran *back* inside?

He wasn't trapped. He had escaped. And gone back in.

Why?

To find me?

No.

To find the laptop.

To delete the files.

"He's alive," I whispered.

Elias frowned. "No. The kitchen exploded. I saw it."

"He wasn't in the kitchen," I said. "He was in the study. Getting the laptop."

*Crash.*

The window behind Elias shattered.

A brick flew into the room.

Elias spun around.

"What the..."

The front door exploded inward.

Splinters flew.

Julian stood in the doorway.

He was burned. His clothes were smoking. His face was a mask of soot and rage.

He was holding a fire axe.

"You're writing the wrong ending, Elias," he rasped.

Elias raised the gun.

"Stay back!"

Julian didn't stop. He didn't even flinch.

He walked into the room.

"You think you're the observer?" Julian asked. "You think you're the narrator?"

He swung the axe.

It hit the floor, inches from Elias's foot.

Elias fired.

*Bang.*

The bullet hit Julian in the shoulder.

He didn't fall. He didn't scream.

He just... absorbed it.

"I am the author," Julian roared.

He swung the axe again.

It hit Elias in the chest. The flat side of the blade.

Elias flew backward. He hit the wall. The gun skittered across the floor.

He slumped down, gasping.

Julian turned to me.

He was bleeding. Burning. Dying.

But he was still standing.

"Elara," he wheezed. "Let's go home."

He reached out a hand.

His fingers were blackened.

"The fire is beautiful," he said. "It cleans everything."

I looked at the gun on the floor.

It was closer to me than to him.

I looked at Julian.

"No," I said.

I dove for the gun.

I grabbed it. It was heavy. Cold.

I rolled onto my back.

I aimed.

"Goodbye, Julian."

He smiled.

"Good line," he whispered.

I pulled the trigger.

*Click.*

Empty.

Elias had only loaded one round?

Or it jammed.

Julian laughed. A wet, bubbling sound.

"Plot armor," he said.

He raised the axe.

"Time for the final cut."

And then...

A siren.

Loud. Right outside.

Red and blue lights flashed through the broken door.

"Police! Drop the weapon!"

Julian froze.

He looked at the door.

Then he looked at me.

"To be continued," he mouthed.

He turned. He ran.

Not out the front door.

Toward the kitchen. toward the back door.

"Stop!" the police shouted. They rushed in.

I scrambled up.

"He's going out the back!" I yelled. "Catch him!"

Two officers ran past me.

I followed them.

We burst into the backyard.

The fence was broken.

And beyond it... the woods.

Dark. Deep. Infinite.

Julian was gone.

Vanished into the trees.

The officers stopped at the tree line. Flashlights sweeping the darkness.

"He's gone," one said.

I stood in the rain, shivering.

He was gone.

But he wasn't done.

I looked down at my hand.

I was still holding the empty gun.

And in my other hand...

The codicil.

I must have picked it up when Elias fell.

I looked at it.

It was signed.

*Julian Vance.*

But not by him.

By me.

It was a forgery.

A perfect forgery of my signature.

He had signed it for me. Before tonight.

He had planned to kill me *and* frame me for forgery? Or use it to claim the estate if I "disappeared"?

I crumpled the paper.

A paramedic approached me. "Ma'am? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I said.

I looked at the woods.

"I need a phone."

"We can get you to the station..."

"I need a phone now," I said.

The officer handed me his cell.

I dialed.

Sloane picked up on the first ring.

"Elara?"

"He's alive," I said. "He got away."

Silence.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Elias's house. The police are here."

"I'm coming to get you."

"No," I said. "Don't come here. Go to the safe house."

"What safe house?"

"Mom's," I said. "In Florida."

"Mom hates us."

"Mom hates *him*," I said. "She's the only one he can't manipulate."

I hung up.

I handed the phone back to the officer.

"Thank you."

I looked at my house. Or what was left of it.

A smoking crater.

My past was gone.

My future was a question mark.

But my present...

My present was a weapon.

I looked at the empty gun in my hand.

I wasn't the victim anymore.

I was the sequel.