Into the Walls

The passage was narrow, a stone throat lined with cobwebs and dust. It smelled of earth and something older, sweeter—like dried flowers in a forgotten room.

I pushed Arthur ahead of me. He stumbled, his breathing ragged in the confined space.

"Keep going," I whispered, my hand on his back. "Don't stop."

Behind us, the fire roared. I could hear the crackle of burning paper, the groan of heated stone. The smoke was creeping into the tunnel, a grey snake curling along the floor.

We crawled. The floor was rough, scraping my knees through my jeans. The ceiling was low, pressing down on us like the weight of the family secrets.

"Where does it go?" Arthur gasped.

"The house," I said, praying it was true. "The library."

The priest hole. It was a legend, a story Richard told at dinner parties to impress guests. *My great-grandfather built it during the Prohibition. To hide the good stuff.*

I hoped he hadn't bricked it up.

We reached a wooden panel. It was smooth, unlike the rough stone walls.

I pushed on it. It didn't budge.

"It's stuck," Arthur whimpered.

I shoved my shoulder against it. "Help me."

We pushed together. The wood groaned, then popped open.

We tumbled out onto a Persian rug.

The library.

It was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the security system keypad near the door. The air was cool and clean.

I pulled Arthur up. "We have to move."

"Where?" he asked, looking around the room as if he didn't recognize it. "Where are the boys?"

"Gone," I said. "They're gone."

I led him to the window. The rain was still falling, a relentless curtain against the glass.

I looked out.

The driveway was empty. No police cars. No black SUVs.

Just the night.

But then I saw it.

A flickering light in the distance. Near the carriage house.

It wasn't a fire.

It was a flashlight.

Someone was walking toward the main house.

I pulled Arthur away from the window. "Someone's coming."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

I scanned the room for a weapon. The heavy brass lamp on the desk. The fire poker.

I grabbed the poker. It was heavy iron, cold in my hand.

"Get in the closet," I told Arthur.

"Helen—"

"Get in!"

I shoved him into the coat closet and closed the door.

I stood behind the library door, the poker raised. I waited.

Footsteps on the porch. Heavy. deliberate.

The front door opened.

A draft of cold, wet air swept through the hall.

"Helen?"

The voice was low. Familiar.

But it wasn't Richard. And it wasn't James.

It was Julian.

I froze. I had seen him jump. I had seen him fall into the fire.

He walked into the library. He was soaking wet, his clothes charred and smoking. His face was streaked with soot and blood.

He held an axe.

A fire axe. Probably from the emergency box in the tunnel.

He looked around the room, his eyes wild.

"I know you're here, Helen," he whispered. "I can smell you."

He walked toward the desk. He ran his hand over the leather surface.

"Did you think I was dead?" he asked. "Did you think the fire would take me?"

He laughed. A broken, jagged sound.

"Fire doesn't kill Vances. It just purifies us."

He turned. He looked straight at the door where I was hiding.

"Come out, Helen. Or I start chopping."

He raised the axe.

He didn't walk toward me.

He walked toward the closet.

"Arthur?" he called out, his voice mocking. "Are you in there, Dad?"

I stepped out.

"Leave him alone," I said.

Julian spun around. He smiled. His teeth were white in the gloom.

"There you are."

He raised the axe higher.

"Tuition is due, Helen."

He swung.

The axe bit into the doorframe next to my head, splinters exploding into the air.

I swung the poker. It hit his arm with a dull thud.

He grunted, but he didn't drop the axe. He yanked it free.

"You fight dirty," he said. "I like that."

He swung again.

This time, he didn't aim for me.

He aimed for the floor.

He struck the rug. The wood splintered.

"What are you doing?" I screamed.

"Cutting the cord," he said.

He struck again. And again.

He wasn't trying to kill me.

He was trying to break the floor.

To get to the basement.

To the gas line.

The main intake for the house was right below us.

He wasn't going to kill us with the axe.

He was going to blow us up.