Chapter 28: Dust and Boxes

The imposter’s voice faded as I scrambled backward into the shadows. *This is Elara Vance.* The words echoed in my skull, a violation deeper than the surgery, deeper than the drugs. They weren't just stealing my daughter; they were stealing my name.

I dragged myself across the rough wooden beams. The fiberglass insulation bit into my bare legs, a thousand tiny needles of fire, but I couldn't stop. I had to get away from that knothole. I had to find a weapon, a phone, anything.

The fire alarm cut out.

The sudden silence hit me like a physical blow. No more chaotic shrieking to cover my movements. Just the heavy, stifling heat of the attic and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

"Reset the panel!" Mark’s voice drifted up through the floorboards, muffled but furious.

"I did! It’s clear!" Chloe yelled back. "Check the upstairs closet. She has to be there."

I didn't have much time. Minutes, maybe seconds, before they realized the closet was empty and turned their eyes to the ceiling.

I scanned the gloom. The attic was a graveyard of abandoned hobbies and holiday decorations. Plastic bins labeled *XMAS* and *HALLOWEEN* stacked like tombstones. A NordicTrack gathering dust.

I crawled past a stack of old magazines, my hand brushing against a cardboard box taped shut with yellowing packing tape.

*Mark’s Bachelor Stuff.*

I ignored it, reaching for a heavier bin. *Kitchen Misc.*

Nothing. Just old blenders and mismatched plates.

Footsteps thundered on the stairs below.

"She's not in the bathroom!" Chloe screamed. "Find her, Mark!"

I scrambled deeper into the crawlspace, behind a wall of stacked luggage. My elbow knocked against a small, heavy box tucked into the eaves.

I froze, waiting for the sound to betray me.

Below, silence. Then the distinct *creak* of the attic ladder unfolding.

They were coming.

I looked at the box. It was a standard banker's box, the cardboard soft with age. Written on the side in sharp black marker was a date.

*Taxes 2015.*

2015. The year before the rattle. The year before Sarah died. The year before Elena Rostova disappeared.

I ripped the tape. It gave way with a dry *嘶* sound.

I reached inside, expecting the dry rustle of paper receipts. Instead, my fingers brushed against cold, smooth glass.

I pulled it out.

It was a tablet. An old model, heavy and thick, encased in a rugged black cover.

Why would Mark keep an old tablet in a box of tax returns? Unless it contained something he couldn't put on the cloud. Something he couldn't risk deleting, but couldn't risk keeping downstairs.

The ladder creaked again. A beam of light cut across the attic ceiling, swinging wildly. A flashlight.

"Elara!" Mark's voice boomed into the crawlspace. "I know you're up here. Come down before you get hurt."

I shrank back into the shadows, clutching the tablet to my chest. I held my breath, my heart hammering so hard I thought he must hear it.

The light swept over the Christmas bins. It lingered on the NordicTrack. Then it dipped, illuminating the floor where I had just been crawling.

"There's tracks in the dust," Chloe whispered. Her voice was right at the opening.

I looked down at the device in my hands. It was my only lifeline. My only hope of finding out what happened in 2015.

I pressed the power button.

Please. Please have a charge.

The screen remained black.

I pressed it again, holding it down, praying to a god I hadn't spoken to in years.

A vibration. A faint hum against my palm.

Then, a battery icon flashed in the center of the screen. A sliver of red.

2%.

Just enough.