Inside the Tomb

The flashlight beam had disappeared down the stairs, but the memory of it burned in my retinas. I was shaking, cold, and wet, but the fear was gone, replaced by a crystalline focus. Julian was here. He was downstairs. And he was trapped.

I stood at the top of the landing in the vestibule, listening. The storm raged outside, but inside the Carriage House, the silence was heavy, broken only by the faint *drip-drip-drip* of water leaking somewhere in the old structure.

I needed to see what he was hiding.

I crept down the stairs, placing my feet on the edges of the treads to avoid the creaks. At the bottom, the main room was a cavern of shadows. I didn't turn on my flashlight. I let my eyes adjust, using the flashes of lightning through the windows as a strobe light.

The room was empty.

But the door to the basement—the real basement, not the wine cellar I had found earlier—was open.

A faint, flickering light emanated from below. Not a flashlight. A screen.

I moved toward it, drawn like a moth. The stairs down were narrow, wooden, and steep. I took them one by one, holding my breath.

At the bottom, the space opened up. It wasn't a wine cellar. It was a command center.

Banks of servers lined the far wall, their cooling fans whirring softly in the gloom. Cables snaked across the floor like black vipers. And in the center of the room, illuminated by the glow of three large monitors, was a desk.

Julian wasn't there.

I stepped into the room. The air was frigid, climate-controlled to protect the machines.

I walked to the desk. The screens were active.

*Screen 1: Live Feed.* The same grid I had seen in the main house basement. My kitchen. My study. My husband's car.

*Screen 2: Bank Transfer Protocol.* A list of transactions. Millions of dollars, moving through shell companies in the Caymans, Switzerland, Panama.

*Screen 3: A document.*

I leaned closer. It was a PDF, open for editing.

*Last Will and Testament of Arthur Vance.*

My breath hitched.

I scrolled down. It was a new draft. Dated today.

*...I hereby revoke all former wills and codicils...*

*...I leave the entirety of the Vance Estate, including all real property, liquid assets, and trust holdings, to my sole beneficiary...*

*...Helen Vance.*

I stared at my name.

Why would Julian forge a will leaving everything to me?

Unless...

Unless I was the patsy.

I scrolled further.

*...to be held in trust and administered by the executor, Julian Vance.*

He wasn't just stealing the money. He was stealing the identity. He was going to "resurface" after Arthur died. A long-lost brother, returned to help the grieving widow manage her burden.

Or maybe the grieving widow wouldn't be around to manage anything.

Above me, the floorboards creaked.

He was back upstairs.

I looked for a place to hide, but the room was stark, utilitarian. Then I saw the wine racks. Not the fancy display racks upstairs. Industrial metal shelving, floor to ceiling, packed with wooden crates.

I squeezed into the narrow gap behind the last rack, pulling my coat tight around me.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Confident.

Julian walked into the room. He was carrying a fresh glass of scotch and a sandwich. He sat down at the desk, the leather chair groaning under his weight.

He typed something on the keyboard.

On Screen 1, the camera feed changed. It zoomed in on the kitchen of the main house.

"Where are you, Helen?" he muttered, taking a bite of his sandwich.

He switched cameras. The study. The garage.

"Clever girl," he whispered. "You found the blind spots."

He spun the chair around, facing the room. Facing me.

He didn't see me. He was looking at the far wall, where a large, digital map was projected.

*Vance Estate Security Grid.*

Red dots blinked at the perimeter. *Motion Detected.*

He frowned. He put down his glass and walked to the map.

"Deer?" he murmured.

He tapped the screen. The red dots expanded.

*Sector 4: Rear Garden.*
*Sector 5: Woods.*

Multiple dots. Moving fast. Converging on the house.

Julian stiffened. He wasn't looking for me anymore.

"Not deer," he said, his voice tight.

He ran back to the desk and started typing furiously.

*Initiate Lockdown.*

Steel shutters began to descend over the basement windows with a loud, mechanical *clang*.

*Purge Data.*

A progress bar appeared on the center screen. *0%...*

He wasn't just hiding from me. He was hiding from someone else.

He grabbed a go-bag from under the desk. He pulled a gun from a drawer and tucked it into his waistband.

He ran for the stairs.

But he stopped at the bottom.

Because the door at the top of the stairs had just slammed shut. And the sound of the lock turning—a heavy, decisive *thunk*—echoed down into the tomb.

He was trapped.

And I was trapped with him.