The 911 Call

The salt spray stung my eyes, but I didn't blink. I stared at the skeleton swaying in the net, the hollow sockets of the skull judging me.

"Thomas?" Dr. Thorne whispered, his voice trembling. "Arthur didn't have a twin. I delivered all the Vance children. Arthur was a single birth."

"No," I said, my mind racing through thirty years of memories, of inconsistencies. "He wasn't a Vance. He was a Miller."

Sarah Miller's father.

I remembered the old housekeeper, Sarah's mother, clutching the locket. She had been mute, traumatized. But she had brothers.

"Thomas Miller," I said. "He worked on the grounds. He was the only one who knew the tunnels as well as Arthur."

"But the ring," Dr. Thorne said, pointing to the skeletal hand. "That's the Vance crest."

"He stole it," I said. "Or he was given it."

I looked closer at the body. The chains weren't just wrapped around him. They were padlocked.

This wasn't an accident. This was an execution.

"Arthur killed him," I whispered. "Thirty years ago. To cover up Sarah's pregnancy? Or something else?"

"Helen," Dr. Thorne said urgently. "Look."

He pointed to the water.

Bubbles were rising from the depths. Not from a diver. From the bottom.

Large, oily bubbles.

"The hull is breached," Dr. Thorne said. "We disturbed it."

"The containers," I said. "Are they floating?"

"I don't see any containers," he said. "Just... sludge."

Oil. Fuel.

And something else.

Paper.

Soggy, disintegrated clumps of paper were bobbing to the surface.

I grabbed the gaff hook and fished a clump out of the water. I peeled it apart.

It wasn't a bond. It wasn't money.

It was a newspaper. From 1995.

I fished out another clump. A phone book.

"It's trash," I said, my voice hollow. "The boat... it's filled with trash."

There was no fortune. No fifty million dollars.

Arthur—Thomas—had lied.

Why?

To get me out of the house. To get me away from Julian.

"He saved me," I realized. "He sent me on a wild goose chase to save me."

But if he was Thomas Miller... why did he care?

Unless...

My phone buzzed. The burner.

I looked at the screen. Unknown number.

I answered.

"Did you find it?" a voice asked.

It was the same voice I had heard in the fire tower. The voice I thought was Arthur.

But Arthur—Thomas—was dead.

"Who is this?" I demanded.

"Check your pocket, Helen," the voice said. "The other pocket."

I reached into my coat. The pocket where I had kept the remote starter.

My fingers brushed against paper. A small, folded note.

I pulled it out.

*The tuition is paid. The diploma is in the safe. 805.*

"You're not Arthur," I whispered.

"No," the voice said. "Arthur died in 1995. In the cove."

I looked at the skeleton.

"Then who are you?"

"I'm the one who survived," the voice said.

And then I knew.

The man in the wheelchair. The man who had played senile for years. The man who had sent me to the roof.

It wasn't Arthur. And it wasn't Thomas.

It was Julian.

The real Julian.

The man who had jumped into the fire... that was Thomas. Thomas Miller, seeking revenge for his daughter Sarah.

He had impersonated Julian to destroy the family.

And the man I thought was Arthur... he was Julian, hiding in plain sight, trapped in his father's life, paying penance for his sins.

"You let him burn," I said. "You let Thomas burn."

"He wanted to," Julian said. "He wanted to end it. Just like I do."

"Where are you?"

"I'm close," he said. "I'm watching."

I scanned the cliffs. A flash of light. A reflection.

"Why?" I asked. "Why lie to me? Why send me here?"

"Because you needed the truth," he said. "And you needed to be away from the house when it blew."

"And the money?"

"There is no money, Helen," he said. "Just debt. Mountains of debt."

"But the gold... Elizabeth..."

"Elizabeth is a con artist," he said. "She came back for a score that didn't exist."

He paused.

"But there is one thing of value left. In box 805."

"What is it?"

"My confession," he said. "And the deed to the only property the IRS can't touch. A trust for Maya."

"You knew," I whispered. "You knew she was your daughter."

"I knew," he said. "She has Sarah's eyes."

A siren wailed in the distance. The Coast Guard.

"Go, Helen," Julian said. "Go to the bank. Get the box. And then disappear."

"What about you?"

"I have a boat to catch," he said.

The line went dead.

I looked at the cliffs. The flash of light was gone.

"Helen?" Dr. Thorne asked. "Who was that?"

"A ghost," I said.

I looked at the skeleton of Arthur Vance swinging in the wind.

"Cut it loose," I said.

"What?"

"Cut it loose," I ordered. "Let him rest."

Dr. Thorne hesitated, then cut the rope. The skeleton splashed into the water and sank, returning to the grave it should have never left.

"Take me back," I said. "To the shore."

"And then?"

"And then," I said, clutching the note, "I'm going to the bank."

I had a deposit to make. And a withdrawal.

And I had a daughter to claim.

The tuition was paid.

Now it was time to graduate.