The Climb

The rain was merciless, pounding the roof like it wanted to wash us away. I pulled Arthur back from the edge, his body limp and heavy. We huddled together on the flat section of the roof, trapped between the burning house and the sheer drop.

The house was screaming beneath us, timbers cracking, glass shattering. But it was the silence from the ground that terrified me more.

Simon was gone.

But was he dead?

"The fire," Arthur gasped, clutching his chest. "It's too hot."

He was right. The heat rising from the library was intense, baking the slate shingles. Smoke curled around us, thick and acrid.

I looked around for an escape. The fire department was on the scene—I could see the flashing lights in the driveway, the men running with hoses—but they hadn't seen us yet. The smoke was too thick, the rain too heavy.

"We have to signal them," I said.

I waved my arms, screaming into the storm. "Help! Up here!"

No one looked up. The roar of the fire drowned me out.

I needed something bright. something loud.

I looked at the chimney. Simon had climbed out of it. The flue was clear.

But the fire was below.

If I dropped something down... maybe I could cause a flare-up. Something visible.

I checked my pockets. Nothing. The burner phone was gone. The gun was gone.

Then Arthur reached into his pocket.

He pulled out the lighter.

*S.B.*

"Use it," he whispered.

I took the lighter. It was warm from his body.

I looked around for something flammable. There was nothing on the roof but slate and water.

Except for me.

I was wearing a silk scarf. It was soaked, but maybe...

I took it off. I wrung it out as best I could. I poured the last dregs of lighter fluid from the Zippo onto the fabric.

I flicked the wheel.

The flame sputtered, then caught. A small, blue fire in the rain.

I waved the scarf over my head, a desperate flag of surrender.

"Over here!" I screamed. "Look up!"

A firefighter near the truck pointed. A spotlight swept across the roof, blinding me.

"We see you!" a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. "Stay where you are! We're bringing the ladder!"

I collapsed against the chimney, relief washing over me.

"They see us, Arthur," I said. "We're going to be okay."

Arthur didn't answer.

I looked at him. His head was slumped against the brickwork. His eyes were closed.

"Arthur?"

I touched his cheek. It was cold.

"Arthur!"

I checked for a pulse.

It was faint. Thready.

He was fading.

"Hold on," I whispered, tears mixing with the rain on my face. "Just hold on."

The ladder truck extended its arm, the bucket rising toward us. It seemed to take forever.

Finally, a firefighter climbed out onto the roof. He was huge in his turnout gear, a faceless savior.

"Ma'am?" he shouted. "Can you walk?"

"Take him," I said, pointing to Arthur. "Take him first."

He nodded. He lifted Arthur effortlessly, carrying him to the bucket.

I followed, my legs shaking.

As the bucket descended, I looked back at the house.

The roof collapsed.

A plume of sparks shot into the sky, illuminating the grounds.

And there, standing by the tree line, watching the house burn, was a figure.

Small. Dark.

Not Simon. Not Julian. Not Richard.

It was Sarah.

She was alive. And she was watching us.

She raised a hand in a salute. Or a warning.

Then she turned and disappeared into the woods.

We hit the ground. Paramedics swarmed us. They put a mask on Arthur's face, loading him onto a stretcher.

"Is he going to make it?" I asked, grabbing a medic's arm.

"He's stable," the medic said. "But he's weak."

Someone put a blanket around my shoulders. A police officer approached me.

"Mrs. Vance?"

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Miller," he said. "We received your distress call. And the file."

The file. The upload.

"You got it?"

"We got it," he said. "We have units at the airport. They intercepted a private plane trying to take off. The pilot is in custody. And a passenger."

"Who?" I asked. "Who was on the plane?"

"A woman," he said. "Carrying a fake passport and a bag full of gold bars."

My heart stopped.

"Sarah?"

"No," the detective said. "She says her name is Sarah Miller. But her fingerprints match a missing person report from thirty years ago."

He paused.

"Her name is Elizabeth Vance. Your sister-in-law."

I stared at him.

Elizabeth Vance.

Arthur's wife. Julian and Richard's mother.

She wasn't dead.

She was Sarah.