Marcus's Betrayal

"Elowen Visits," I said aloud, reading the name on the lockbox notification I hadn't received. Except there was no lockbox. Just a gouge in the wood.

It was 4:14 PM. The garage door was closed, the paint can was hidden (I hoped), and Marcus was back on the couch, pretending to play his game. I was standing in the foyer, my heart doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs, when the doorbell rang.

Not the digital chime of the Ring camera—because I was too broke for cloud storage—but the old-fashioned, mechanical *ding-dong* that vibrated through the floorboards.

I looked at Marcus. He didn't move.

"Are you going to get that?" I asked.

"I'm in a match," he said, not looking up. "Probably just Amazon."

I walked to the door. I looked through the peephole.

Standing on my porch, framed by the dying hydrangeas and the perfect afternoon light, was a woman.

She was wearing a cream-colored pantsuit that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her blonde bob was sharp enough to cut glass. She was holding a clipboard.

It was her. The woman from the TikTok video. The woman who had staged my life.

*El Elevates.*

I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

"Hi!" she said, her voice a bright, melodic chime. "I'm looking for Gary? I'm a friend of his."

She smiled. It was a practiced smile, the kind you see on real estate billboards and in nightmares. Her eyes, a pale, icy blue, swept over me, cataloging my messy bun, my stained t-shirt, and the general aura of 'tenant on the verge of a breakdown.'

"Gary's not here," I said, blocking the doorway with my body. "He lives in Decatur."

"Oh, I know," she said, tapping her clipboard with a silver pen. "But he said I could stop by and take some measurements. For the... renovation."

"Renovation?" I repeated. "What renovation?"

"The kitchen," she said, her eyes drifting past me to the hallway. "He mentioned the counters were a bit... dated. And the flow is all wrong."

She took a step forward.

I didn't move.

"He didn't tell me about any renovation," I said. "And he didn't tell me anyone was coming over."

"Oh, Gary," she laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. "He's such a scatterbrain. He probably forgot to text you. I'm Elowen, by the way. Elowen Vance."

She extended a hand. Her nails were painted a perfect, glossy nude.

I didn't take it.

"I know who you are," I said.

Her smile faltered, just for a second. A micro-expression of annoyance, quickly smoothed over by professional charm.

"You follow me on TikTok?" she asked, brightening. "That's so sweet! I love meeting fans."

"You were in my house," I said. "Yesterday. While I was at the dentist."

She blinked. "I think you're confused, honey. I haven't been inside this property in... months."

"I saw the video," I said, my voice shaking. "You moved my couch. You put a nursery in my office. You threw away my plant."

Elowen sighed. She lowered the clipboard. The mask slipped, just a little.

"Look," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Gary is in a bind. A serious bind. He needs to sell this place, and he needs to sell it fast. The market is cooling, and frankly, the way you live..."

She gestured vaguely at my life.

"...it's not helping the property value."

"I pay rent," I said. "I have a lease."

"Leases can be broken," she said. "Especially when there's cause."

"Cause?"

"Unauthorized occupants," she said, her eyes flicking toward the living room where Marcus was shouting at the TV. "Damage to the property. Unsanitary conditions."

"My house is clean," I said.

"Is it?" she asked. She took another step forward, encroaching on my personal space. She smelled of expensive perfume—sandalwood and something floral. Lavender.

"It smells like... stagnation," she whispered. "Like potential being wasted."

She reached out and touched the doorframe. Her fingers traced the wood, a possessive, intimate gesture.

"This house deserves better," she said. "It deserves someone who appreciates its bones. Someone who knows how to let the light in."

"Get off my porch," I said.

"I'm just trying to help you, Thea," she said, pulling a card from her pocket. "Gary is going to list it whether you like it or not. If you let me stage it—properly—I can get him a cash offer by Sunday. He'll give you your deposit back. Maybe even a little extra for the inconvenience."

She pressed the card into my hand. It was heavy, textured cardstock.

*El Elevates.*
*Transform Your Space. Transform Your Life.*

"Think about it," she said. "Sunday. 1:00 PM. Be out of the house. Or be evicted."

She turned and walked down the steps, her heels clicking on the pavement. She didn't look back. She walked to the black SUV parked two houses down—the same one I had seen earlier.

I watched her get in. I watched her drive away.

I looked down at the card in my hand.

On the back, written in blue ink, was a note.

*The locket was a nice touch. But you should have checked the clasp.*

My blood ran cold.

The locket. The vintage silver locket I had sold on eBay.

I hadn't opened it. I hadn't checked the clasp.

I ran inside, slamming the door and locking the deadbolt.

"Who was that?" Marcus asked, finally looking up from his game.

"The stager," I said. "Elowen."

"What did she want?"

"She wants us out," I said. "By Sunday."

I ran upstairs to the bedroom. I pulled out the inventory box from under the bed. I frantically dug through the pile of old jewelry, looking for anything else I might have missed.

But my mind was racing.

*The locket was a nice touch.*

She knew. She knew I was selling Gary's junk.

She knew because she had been the one to buy it.

*M_B_88.*

Maya Bishop.

But Maya Bishop was dead. Or missing.

Which meant Elowen Vance wasn't just a stager.

She was the buyer.

And she was buying back her own history.

I heard a noise downstairs.

The front door unlocking.

I froze. I had just locked it. I had just turned the deadbolt.

"Marcus?" I called out.

"Yeah?" he yelled back from the living room. "Did you order pizza?"

"No," I whispered.

I walked to the top of the stairs.

The front door was open.

And standing in the foyer, illuminated by the porch light, was Gary.

He wasn't in Vegas.

He was wearing his Kirkland jeans and a sweat-stained t-shirt. He looked disheveled. Panicked.

He was holding a crowbar.

"Thea?" he called out, his voice cracking. "We need to talk."

I looked at Marcus. He was still on the couch, oblivious.

I looked at Gary.

And then I looked past him, to the porch.

Where Elowen Vance was standing, smiling, holding a set of keys.

My keys.

The ones I had lost three years ago.

"We're going to have a little open house," she said.

"Starting now."