Toolbox

The basement door didn't just lock; it sealed. I heard the electronic deadbolt engage with a heavy, magnetic click that vibrated through the floorboards and into the soles of my feet.

"Leo!" I screamed, slamming my palms against the cold oak. "Leo, open the door! He’s here! He’s behind the mirror!"

The only response was the muffled, rhythmic thud of a man walking away. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't panicked. He was humming that same sitcom theme, the notes drifting through the vents like toxic gas.

I backed away from the door, the beam of my Maglite trembling. The air in the workshop was thick with the scent of stale fear and the acrid bite of the smoke starting to seep through the ceiling joists. The orange glow from the vents was brightening, a hellish sunrise in my subterranean cage.

I wasn't a victim. I wasn't a project. I was a preservationist.

I turned toward my workbench. This room was my fortress. I knew the weight of every wrench, the sharpness of every chisel, the torque of every drill. I grabbed a pneumatic nail gun—the heavy-duty Paslode I’d used to reinforce the window frames. I checked the canister. Full.

Then I saw the solvent torch. It sat next to a half-empty can of turpentine and a stack of rags.

"Okay," I whispered, the word a jagged prayer. "Let's dismantle the facade."

I didn't waste time on the door. Leo had reinforced that frame with steel plating three months ago. *For your safety, El,* he’d said. *To keep the world out.* It was a cage designed by an expert. But the basement stairs... those were different.

The stairs were open-backed, supported by two massive stringers. I crawled beneath them, the dust bunnies sticking to the sweat on my neck. I looked up at the underside of the landing.

If I couldn't go through the door, I’d go through the floor.

I grabbed the drywall saw and began to hack at the subflooring. The wood was old, but the smoke was making it soft. *Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.* My lungs burned. Every breath felt like swallowing a handful of hot needles.

The house groaned above me, a structural agony that meant the second floor was already beginning to bow. The "safe pockets" Aris had mentioned were an illusion—a builder’s lie to keep the subjects calm while the demolition crew moved in.

I ripped away a section of the plywood. The orange light from the kitchen poured through the gap, illuminating the mudroom. I could see the legs of the dining table.

And then I saw the boots.

They were polished. Immaculate. Aris Thorne was standing three feet from the hole, looking at the kitchen island. He was holding a small, black device. A remote? No. A detonator.

"The tensile strength of a marriage is a fascinating thing, don't you think, Leo?" Aris asked. His voice was perfectly clear now, no longer muffled by the vents.

"She fought," Leo’s voice answered. He sounded tired. Empty. "She didn't just snap. She fought back."

"That’s the childhood trauma, Leo. It creates a secondary support structure. But even the best-reinforced beam fails when the heat gets high enough."

I reached for the nail gun, my fingers slick with grease. I positioned the nozzle through the gap in the floorboards. I didn't aim for Aris. I aimed for the gas line behind the stove.

If the house was going to burn, it was going to burn on my terms.

I pulled the trigger.

The *thwack* of the nail gun was swallowed by the roar of the fire. The three-inch steel spike tore through the copper piping. The hiss of gas changed frequency, turning into a high-pitched whistle.

"What was that?" Leo asked.

"The structure settling," Aris said. He didn't even turn around. "The expansion of the copper pipes under thermal stress. It's a standard acoustic signature of a clearing site."

I didn't wait for the second shot. I shifted my aim.

I aimed for Aris’s ankle.

*Thwack.*

Aris let out a sharp, surprised yelp. He stumbled, his polished boot catching on the edge of the rug. He looked down at the floorboards, his face a mask of sudden, frantic confusion.

"She's under the floor!" Aris roared.

I didn't give him time to react. I grabbed the solvent torch and flicked the igniter. The blue flame hissed to life, a small, beautiful spear of heat. I jammed it upward into the hole, right into the pooling gas behind the stove.

The backdraft was a physical punch. A wall of blue and orange fire erupted through the hole, singeing my hair and throwing me backward onto the concrete. The basement was suddenly a kiln.

I scrambled to my feet, my robe smoking. I ran for the only exit left.

The hopper window.

I dived onto the workbench, my bare feet screaming as they hit the broken glass. I didn't care about the blood. I didn't care about the pain. I shoved my shoulders through the narrow frame, the jagged edges of the casing tearing at my skin.

I tumbled out into the snow, the cold air hitting my lungs like a benediction. I rolled over, gasping, watching the Sterling House.

It was a volcano. The kitchen windows blew outward in a spectacular spray of glass and fire. The roof was already gone, a skeleton of glowing rafters against the black Hudson Valley sky.

I saw a figure leap from the back porch.

Leo.

He landed hard in the snow, rolling and coming up with the shotgun. He looked at the house, his face illuminated by the destruction of everything he’d built. He looked like a man who had lost his soul and was just realizing it wasn't insured.

He looked around the yard, the barrel of the shotgun sweeping the tree line.

"Elena!" he screamed. "I know you're out here!"

I didn't answer. I backed away into the shadows of the rhododendrons, the nail gun still clutched in my hand.

I saw a second figure emerge from the mudroom door.

Aris.

He was limping, his charcoal suit shredded, his face a mess of soot and blood. He was clutching the medical bag to his chest like a child with a stuffed animal. He looked at Leo, then at the fire.

"The ledger, Leo!" Aris shouted over the roar of the flames. "Did you get the ledger?"

"The house is gone, Aris! Forget the ledger!"

"I can't forget it! It's a hundred years of data! It’s the entire foundation of the Institute!"

Aris turned back toward the burning doorway, his obsession overriding his survival instinct. He took a step toward the inferno.

And then, the front gate began to move.

The heavy iron bars screeched as they were forced open by a black SUV. The car didn't stop at the driveway. It surged across the lawn, the tires churning up the snow and the dormant roses.

The driver’s side window rolled down.

A woman was behind the wheel. She was wearing a silk headscarf and oversized sunglasses, looking like she was heading to a brunch in the Hamptons.

Sylvia Vance.

She looked at the burning house, then at Leo and Aris. She didn't look horrified. She looked annoyed.

"You boys are so incredibly messy," Sylvia said. Her voice was amplified by a megaphone. "The site was supposed to be cleared by midnight. The developers are arriving at six."

She looked toward the bushes where I was hiding.

"Elena, dear," Sylvia called out, the megaphone distorting her voice into something metallic and ancient. "Stop playing hide and seek. You’re the only load-bearing element left, and we really do need your signature on the insurance waivers."

She reached into the passenger seat and held up a thick manila folder.

"I have your mother’s real death certificate in here," Sylvia said. "The one that shows she didn't die in the fire. The one that shows where we’ve been keeping her for twenty-six years."

I felt the world tilt. My grip on the nail gun loosened.

"She’s in Room 302, Elena," Sylvia purred. "The room without any doors. And the air is starting to run out."

I looked at the burning house, then at the black SUV.

And then I saw it.

In the back seat of the SUV, pressed against the tinted glass.

A pale, trembling hand.

And a porcelain doll with a cracked, painted smile.

The back door of the SUV began to open.