Chapter 26: The Attic Key

My breath caught. I knew that handwriting.

The loop of the 'S'. The sharp cross of the 't'. It wasn't mine.

It was Sarah's.

I had seen it on old birthday cards Mark kept in a shoebox. *Happy Birthday, little brother. Love, Sarah.*

The realization was a punch to the gut. This wasn't my handwriting. This wasn't my paranoia. This was a message from the grave. Or from someone who wanted me to think she was dead.

I stared at the card. *Friday is the deadline.*

Tomorrow.

They weren't just taking me to a facility. They were finishing what they started four years ago. They were erasing me, just like they erased Sarah.

But how did this card get here?

I looked at the book again. *What to Expect the First Year.* Mark had given it to me. But maybe he hadn't bought it new. Maybe it had been in the house all along.

Maybe it had belonged to Sarah.

I flipped through the pages, searching for more. A receipt fell out. *Oakwood Blooms.* The same florist from the crumpled receipt in my bra.

But this one was dated five years ago.

*Order #3021*
*Item: Congratulatory Bouquet, Pink Roses*
*Card Message: To Sarah, on your new journey. Love, Mark.*

Pink roses. For a baby girl.

Sarah hadn't just died. She had been pregnant. Or she had just given birth.

I looked at the inscription on the back of the business card again. *She suspects. Increase dosage.*

Sarah had suspected. Sarah had been drugged. Sarah had been silenced.

And now it was my turn.

I needed to get out. Not tomorrow. Tonight.

I looked at the vent. Sealed. The window. Sealed. The door. Locked.

I was trapped in a box designed to hold a ghost.

But ghosts can't pick locks.

I stood up, my legs trembling. I walked to the closet.

The key.

Mark had hidden a key in the hallway, in the false book spine. But I couldn't reach the hallway.

Wait.

There was another key.

I remembered a conversation from months ago, when we first moved in. Mark had been complaining about the old skeleton keys for the interior doors. He said they were a nuisance. He said he was going to replace them all.

But he hadn't. Not all of them.

He had thrown the spares into a box in the attic.

The attic.

The access panel was in the hallway. Useless.

But the *vent* system... the main trunk line ran through the attic before branching down to the rooms.

I looked at the sealed vent on the floor. Chloe had taped it shut. Mark had screwed it down.

But they hadn't sealed the return vent near the ceiling.

It was high up, near the crown molding. Too high to reach without a ladder.

I dragged the armchair over. I piled the cushions on top.

I climbed up, my stitches screaming in protest. I reached for the grate.

It was painted shut, layers of white latex sealing the edges. But the screws were old. Rusted.

I didn't have a screwdriver.

I looked down at myself. The silk dress. The red lipstick.

I reached up and pulled a pin from my hair. A long, sturdy bobby pin.

It wouldn't turn the screws. But it might be sharp enough to score the paint.

I scraped at the edges of the grate, white flakes raining down into my eyes. I worked until my fingers bled, until the metal was exposed.

Then I jammed the pin into the screw head and twisted.

Nothing.

I tried again.

The metal bent.

"Damn it," I whispered.

I looked around the room, desperate.

And then I saw it.

On the dresser, where Chloe had left her purse earlier. She had taken the bag, but she had left something behind.

A nail file.

Not the flimsy emery board I had used before. A metal file, sharp and strong.

She had used it to fix a snag in her nail while she was guarding me. And she had forgotten it.

I climbed down. I grabbed the file. I climbed back up.

I inserted the tip into the screw head. It fit perfectly.

I twisted.

*Creak.*

The screw turned.

One. Then another.

The grate came loose in my hands.

Behind it was a dark, dusty tunnel. Just big enough for a small woman to crawl through.

I didn't know where it led. I didn't know if I would get stuck.

But I knew one thing.

I wasn't going to wait for Friday.

I tossed the grate onto the bed to muffle the sound. I hoisted myself up, wincing as the metal edge dug into my stomach.

I crawled into the dark.

And then I stopped.

I needed a weapon.

I reached back down. I grabbed the nail file.

And then I reached into the bodice of my dress, where I had hidden the business card.

I tucked the key into the bandage covering my incision. It dug into my skin, sharp and cold.

It was the first weapon I had.