The Attic

I had never met the social worker, but I knew she was a complication. Complications, at this point, were fatal.

She stood in the foyer, shaking her umbrella, dripping water onto the Persian rug. She was young, earnest, and completely out of her depth.

"Mrs. Vance?" she asked, looking up as I descended the stairs. "I'm sorry to intrude. I received a concerning report about your father-in-law."

"Arthur is in the hospital," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos in my veins. "He wandered off. We found him. He's safe."

"I know," she said, pulling a file from her bag. "Dr. Thorne called me. But he also mentioned bruising. And... other things."

"Other things?"

"He said Arthur was talking about a fire. And a man in the carriage house."

She looked around the foyer, her eyes landing on the soot-stained walls, the smell of smoke still clinging to the curtains.

"Is everything alright here, Mrs. Vance?"

"We had a small electrical fire," Richard said, stepping out of the study. He had changed his clothes, but he still looked haunted. "It's under control."

The social worker didn't look convinced. "I need to see the house. Standard procedure."

"Now?" Richard asked, blocking her path. "It's three in the morning."

"The report was filed as urgent," she said, her voice firm. "If you refuse, I have to call the police."

The police.

If the police came here, they would find the empty safe. The gun in my pocket. The ledger in the car.

"Come in," I said, forcing a smile. "I'll show you around."

We walked through the downstairs rooms. The kitchen, the dining room, the library. Everything looked normal, if a bit neglected. The social worker took notes, her pen scratching loudly in the silence.

"And the upstairs?" she asked.

We climbed the stairs. I showed her Arthur's room. The empty bed. The open window.

"He climbed out?" she asked, incredulous.

"He's very active," Richard said quickly. "Dementia can be... unpredictable."

She frowned, making another note. Then she looked up at the ceiling.

"What's up there?"

"The attic," I said. "Just storage."

"I need to see it."

"Why?" Richard demanded.

"Because Dr. Thorne said Arthur mentioned a 'boy in the dark'," she said. "I need to make sure no one is living up there."

My heart stopped.

Julian had been in the Carriage House. But he had also been in the main house. I had seen the footprints in the flour.

We climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. The door was closed.

I opened it.

The attic was dusty, filled with boxes and old furniture. It looked undisturbed.

The social worker walked in, shining her flashlight into the corners.

"It looks empty," Richard said, relief flooding his voice.

"Wait," she said.

She bent down.

On the floor, near the window, was a small object.

A cigarette butt.

She picked it up with a tissue. It was fresh. The ash was still intact.

"Does your father smoke, Mrs. Vance?" she asked, turning to me.

"No," I whispered.

"Does your husband?"

"No."

She looked at the cigarette, then at us.

"Then who has been up here?"

Before I could answer, a draft of cold air hit us.

The door to the attic, heavy and solid oak, slammed shut.

The latch clicked.

We were locked in.