Simon's Countermove

"What was that?" the social worker asked, spinning around as the attic door slammed into its frame. She lunged for the handle, twisting it violently.

"It's locked!" Her voice rose an octave, panic replacing her professional veneer. "Open it! Mr. Vance, open this door!"

Richard stared at the closed door, his face a mask of confusion that quickly morphed into terror. "I... I can't. It only locks from the outside."

"The outside?" She pounded on the wood. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

I backed away, my heart thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird. The latch hadn't just clicked. It had been thrown. Someone had been waiting in the hallway.

Julian? No, he was at the river with Sarah.

Richard? He was standing right here, looking as useless as ever.

Arthur was in the hospital.

That left only one person.

James.

The social worker turned on us, her flashlight beam cutting through the dusty gloom. "This isn't an accident. Someone locked us in. Who else is in this house?"

"No one," Richard stammered. "The house is empty. We had a fire..."

"A fire?" She shined the light around the attic, illuminating the stacks of boxes, the old furniture, the cobwebs. "And you brought me up here? Into a fire hazard?"

"It wasn't a hazard," I said, my voice steady despite the fear. "It was a trap."

I walked to the window. It was small, a dormer looking out over the back garden. Through the grime, I could see the driveway.

A black SUV was pulling in. Not Simon's. This one was newer. Bigger.

The driver got out.

It was James.

He stood by the car, looking up at the attic window. He couldn't see me, but he knew I was there. He raised his hand in a mocking wave.

Then he turned and walked toward the front door.

"Who is that?" Richard asked, peering over my shoulder.

"Your brother," I said. "The one who actually has a plan."

"James?" Richard paled. "He's not supposed to be here."

"He's cleaning up, Richard. Just like Julian. Just like you."

The social worker was still pounding on the door. "Let us out! I have a cell phone! I'm calling 911!"

"Do it," I said. "Call them."

She pulled her phone from her bag. She stared at the screen.

"No signal," she whispered. "Zero bars."

Of course. The attic was a dead zone. The thick slate roof blocked everything.

We were trapped. In a wooden box. In a house that had already tried to burn down once.

"We have to break the door," the social worker said, looking around for a tool. She grabbed an old iron lamp from a pile of junk. "Help me."

Richard hesitated. He looked at me, then at the door.

"It won't work," I said. "It's solid oak. Reinforced."

"We have to try!" she screamed, swinging the lamp. It hit the wood with a dull thud, leaving a dent but nothing more.

I ignored them. I went to the stack of boxes in the corner. The ones marked *1995*.

If James was here, if he had locked us in... he wasn't just stalling. He was looking for something.

Or he was finishing something.

I tore open the top box. Old clothes. Toys.

I opened the next one. Papers. Tax returns.

I dumped them onto the floor. Richard stopped swinging the lamp.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for leverage," I said.

I opened a smaller box, taped shut with heavy duct tape. Inside was a leather-bound journal.

Not the ledger.

A diary.

I opened it. The handwriting was cramped, frantic.

*September 12, 1995.*
*He knows. Arthur knows. I saw him looking at the accounts.*

*September 20, 1995.*
*He threatened me. Said I'd end up in the river.*

*October 1, 1995.*
*I'm pregnant. I told Julian. He laughed. He said it was an insurance policy.*

I flipped to the end.

*October 13, 1995.*
*I'm going to the bridge. If I don't come back, check the wall. The loose brick in the basement.*

The basement.

Where the tunnel was. Where the vault was.

Sarah hadn't just hidden the ledger. She had hidden her insurance policy.

I looked at the diary again. The handwriting... it was familiar.

I pulled the note from my pocket. The one from the crypt.

*You're looking in the wrong grave, Helen.*

I held them side by side.

The loop of the 'y'. The cross of the 't'.

They were identical.

But then I saw something else. Something that made my blood run cold.

I pulled out a grocery list I had found on the kitchen counter yesterday. One written by me.

*Milk. Eggs. Bread.*

The handwriting was the same.

Exactly the same.

The social worker stopped pounding. She looked at me, her eyes wide.

"Mrs. Vance?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

"No," I whispered, dropping the diary.

It wasn't Sarah's handwriting.

It was mine.

But I hadn't written it.

"They're forging it," I said, looking at Richard. "They're forging my insanity."

Richard looked at the diary, then at me. He didn't look surprised.

"It was Dad's idea," he whispered. "To make you the unreliable narrator. In case you ever found out."

He stepped back.

"He's been practicing your handwriting for twenty years, Helen."

I stared at him. The betrayal was absolute.

But then I smelled it.

Smoke.

Coming from under the door.

James hadn't just locked us in.

He had lit the match.