Julian's Rage

Julian stood in the wreckage of the library, the firelight casting long, dancing shadows across his face. He held the axe loose in one hand, the weight of it seeming negligible.

Simon was on his knees, clutching his broken nose, blood streaming through his fingers. He looked small. Pathetic. The architect of our misery reduced to a sobbing mess.

"You stole from me," Julian said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. "Ten million dollars. My getaway fund."

"I invested it!" Simon choked out. "I grew it! Phoenix Holdings is worth fifty million now!"

"Is it?" Julian asked. He took a step closer. "And whose name is on the account, Simon? Yours? Or the dead girl's?"

Simon froze.

"I checked the ledger," Julian said. "Before Helen threw the tablet away. You put everything in a trust. A blind trust."

He leaned down, bringing his face level with Simon's.

"But you made a mistake. You listed the beneficiary as 'The Heirs of Sarah Miller.'"

Julian smiled. It was a terrifying sight.

"That's not you, Simon. And it's not Richard. It's Maya."

Simon scrambled back, his heels slipping on the debris. "I can change it! I have the power of attorney! I can transfer it all to you!"

"I don't want the money," Julian said. "I want the years back. I want the life you stole from me while I rotted in that carriage house, thinking I was a murderer."

He raised the axe.

"No!" Simon screamed. "Richard! Help me!"

Richard was slumped against the wall, clutching his shoulder. He looked at Simon. Then at Julian.

He didn't move.

"You're on your own, Simon," Richard whispered.

Julian swung.

It wasn't a clean hit. The axe struck Simon in the chest, the blade crunching through ribs. Simon shrieked, a high, thin sound that cut through the roar of the fire.

He fell back, writhing in the dust.

Julian raised the axe again.

"Wait!" I shouted.

Julian paused, the blade hovering at the apex of its arc. He looked at me.

"He's done, Helen. Let me finish it."

"No," I said. "We need him. To confess. To clear your name."

"My name is dead," Julian said. "Let it stay dead."

He turned back to Simon.

But Simon wasn't done.

His hand lashed out, grabbing a piece of the broken floorboard—a jagged spear of oak.

He thrust it upward.

It caught Julian in the stomach.

Julian grunted, staggering back. He dropped the axe. He looked down at the wood protruding from his abdomen, his expression one of mild surprise.

"Well," he said. "That's inconvenient."

Simon scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding chest. He looked at the axe on the floor. He looked at Julian.

Then he looked at me.

"You first," he rasped.

He dove for the axe.

I didn't think. I moved.

I grabbed Arthur by the arm. "Run!"

I pulled him toward the priest hole. The fire had weakened the wall, and the panel was hanging by a hinge.

We scrambled through, into the stone throat of the house.

Behind us, I heard a scream. Then a sickening thud.

Then silence.

We crawled through the tunnel, back toward the crypt. The heat was intense, the air thick with smoke.

"Is he coming?" Arthur gasped.

I looked back.

The tunnel was empty.

But the sound of the fire was getting louder.

We reached the crypt. The bronze door was still closed.

I pushed on it.

Locked.

Julian had locked it from the inside.

We were trapped.

"The window," Arthur said, pointing up.

High on the wall of the mausoleum, near the vaulted ceiling, was a small, barred window.

"It's too high," I said.

"The sarcophagus," Arthur said. "Climb on it."

We dragged ourselves onto the marble box. I stood on top of it, reaching for the bars.

They were old iron, rusted and pitted. I pulled.

They didn't budge.

"Use the jack," Arthur said.

"What?"

He pointed to the corner of the crypt. An old car jack, rusted and forgotten, left by some long-dead groundskeeper.

I jumped down. I grabbed the jack. I climbed back up.

I wedged it between the bars. I started to crank it.

The metal groaned. Flakes of rust rained down on my face.

*Crack.*

The bars bent. Then snapped.

The opening was small. Just big enough for a person.

"You go first," I told Arthur.

"I can't climb that," he said.

"You have to."

I boosted him up. He scrambled through the opening, falling onto the wet grass outside.

I pulled myself up.

I was half-way through when I heard it.

A gunshot.

From inside the tunnel.

I froze.

"Helen!" Arthur shouted from outside. "Come on!"

I looked back into the dark mouth of the tunnel.

Who was left?

Simon? Julian? Richard?

Another shot. Closer this time.

I didn't wait to find out.

I squeezed through the window and fell into the mud.

I grabbed Arthur. We ran.

Away from the mausoleum. Away from the house. Toward the woods.

Behind us, the crypt exploded.

The gas had reached the main pocket. The marble walls blew outward, showering the cemetery with stone.

We were thrown to the ground.

I covered my head, debris raining down around us.

When the noise stopped, I looked up.

The mausoleum was gone. The tunnel was a crater.

And in the center of the flames, something was burning.

Something that looked like a ledger.

But it wasn't the digital copy.

It was the original.

The paper trail.

Gone.