Morning Pretenses

I didn't answer. I just leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door, listening to the silence on the other side. He wasn't scratching anymore. He was waiting.

A crash from the study startled me.

Richard was back.

I ran to the front of the house. He was standing in the doorway of the study, holding a heavy bronze bookend. He looked wild, his eyes darting from me to the stairs.

"Did you hear that?" he hissed.

"It was him," I said. "He's at the back door."

Richard's face drained of color. He dropped the bookend. It landed with a dull thud on the Persian rug.

"He can't be. I saw him go into the basement. I locked the gate."

"He picked the lock," I lied. "Or he broke it. It doesn't matter. He's outside, Richard. And he wants to come in."

"We have to..." He trailed off, looking at the ceiling. "We have to check on Dad."

He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I followed him, my legs burning.

We burst into Arthur's room. Mrs. Higgins was sitting in her chair, snoring softly. Arthur was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Richard exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. "He's safe."

"For now," I said.

I walked to the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy with clouds. I looked down at the garden. It was empty. The Carriage House was dark, a black shape against the trees.

There was no fire. No smoke.

Julian had put it out. Or maybe it had never really started. Maybe it was just another trick.

"Richard," I said, turning away from the window. "We need a story. For tomorrow. For the auditor."

He looked at me, his eyes hollow. "A story?"

"We need to explain the transfer. The $50,000. And the $500,000."

"We can say it was a mistake," he mumbled. "A clerical error."

"They won't believe that. Not with the memo line."

"Then what?" he snapped. "What do we say?"

"We say it was blackmail," I said.

He froze. "What?"

"We say someone hacked the accounts. Someone who knew about... about the past. And we paid them to keep quiet."

"That's..." He shook his head. "That admits guilt."

"It admits *victimhood*," I corrected. "We're the victims, Richard. We're being extorted. By a cybercriminal. It explains the money. It explains the stress. It explains everything."

He stared at me, hope flickering in his eyes. It was a weak, pathetic hope, but it was something.

"Do you think they'll buy it?"

"They have to," I said. "Because the alternative is the truth."

He nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay. We can do that."

"But first," I said, "you need to wash your face. You look like you've been in a fight."

He touched his cheek. "I walked into a door."

"Exactly."

He went into the bathroom. I heard the water running.

I walked over to the nightstand. I picked up the sleep apnea monitor I had hidden behind the lamp. Julian hadn't found this one.

I checked the app on my phone.

*Recording.*

I pressed play.

I heard Richard's voice from ten minutes ago.

*We have to bury him. For real this time.*

I stopped the recording. I saved the file. I uploaded it to the cloud.

Then I went downstairs to the kitchen. I made a pot of coffee. Strong. Black.

Richard came down twenty minutes later. He was wearing fresh clothes. His face was scrubbed clean, the cut on his cheek bright red but neat.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. He looked at me over the rim of the mug.

"You're amazing, Helen," he said softly. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Drink your coffee," I said. "We have a long day ahead of us."

He nodded and took a sip.

"This is good," he said. "Different. What kind is it?"

"It's a new blend," I said.

He smiled, a weak, grateful smile. Then he frowned. He touched his cheek again.

"Is that soot?" he asked, rubbing his finger against his skin.

I looked at him. There was a smudge of black on his jawline.

"Yes," I said.

"Funny," he murmured. "I must have missed a spot."

He rubbed it harder. It smeared.

"It's stubborn," he said.

"It's not just soot, Richard," I said, watching him. "It's ash."

"Ash?"

He looked at his finger. It was gray. Greasy.

He looked at me.

"From the fireplace?" he asked.

"No," I said. "From the Carriage House."

His eyes widened. "But... I wasn't in the Carriage House."

"I know," I said. "You were in the garden. Digging."

"Then how..."

He stopped. He looked at the coffee cup. Then at the back door. Then at the ceiling.

"How did the ash get on my face?"

I didn't answer. I just watched him.

Because I knew.

The ash wasn't from the outside.

It was from the inside.

It was falling from the vents.

The heating system. It connected the main house to the outbuildings.

And if ash was coming through the vents