The Buyer

Panic is a cold, sharp thing. It tasted like ozone and old insulation as I raced down the attic ladder, my heart slamming a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs. I landed on the hallway carpet and shoved the ladder back up into the ceiling, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the pull-string.

*3:14 AM.* The same time as the notification. The same time as the photo.

I ran to the garage door. It was locked. I fumbled with the deadbolt, my fingers slipping on the cold metal. I threw it open and stared into the dark cavern.

Empty.

Just as the photo had shown. No boxes. No cot. No Marcus.

The smell of fresh paint was gone, replaced by the damp, earthy scent of the crawlspace and something else... something chemical. Bleach? No. Ammonia.

I walked to the center of the concrete floor. The grey primer was still wet. I touched it, and the cold, sticky substance coated my fingertip.

"Marcus?" I whispered.

Silence.

I turned back to the house. I needed to find him. I needed to see his face, to hear his voice, to confirm that he wasn't just another prop in Elowen Vance's twisted little dollhouse.

I ran upstairs to the master bedroom. The door was closed. I pushed it open.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were rumpled, the duvet thrown back, but Marcus wasn't there. His noise-canceling headphones were on the nightstand, the little blue light blinking slowly.

*Blink. Blink. Blink.*

"Marcus!" I screamed, running into the bathroom. Empty.

I checked the closet. Empty.

I ran back downstairs. The living room. The kitchen. The dining room.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

The house was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and my own ragged breathing.

I grabbed my phone. I dialed Marcus's number.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then, voicemail.

"Hey, it's Marcus. Leave a message, or better yet, text me."

I hung up and texted him.

*Where are you?*

*Please answer me.*

*The garage is empty. Where did you go?*

I waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five.

Nothing.

I walked back to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, trying to steady myself. My eyes fell on the toaster.

Next to it, face up, was a receipt.

I picked it up.

*Behr Premium Plus Paint - Swiss Coffee.*
*Quantity: 2 Gallons.*
*Date: October 17, 2026. 2:45 AM.*

Less than an hour ago.

And at the bottom of the receipt, in the space for the customer signature, was a single, sprawling name.

*Marcus.*

My stomach dropped.

He bought the paint. He painted over the evidence.

Why?

Was he working with her? Was he part of it?

"No," I whispered. "He wouldn't. He loves me."

But did he? Or did he love the free rent? Did he love the convenience of a girlfriend who paid the bills while he waited for his crypto to rebound?

I looked at the receipt again. The store address was a 24-hour Home Depot in Buckhead. Five miles away.

If he had left at 2:45 AM, he should have been back by now. Unless... unless he wasn't coming back.

A noise from the front porch made me jump.

A heavy *thud*, like a package being dropped.

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

Nothing. Just the empty porch and the dark street beyond.

I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door a crack.

Sitting on the welcome mat was a box.

A cardboard moving box, taped shut.

Written on the top in black marker was my name.

*Thea.*

I stared at it. It looked like one of the boxes from the garage. One of Marcus's boxes.

I dragged it inside and locked the door. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the junk drawer and sliced through the tape.

I opened the flaps.

Inside were clothes. Marcus's clothes. His hoodies. His jeans. His favorite vintage t-shirt with the hole in the shoulder.

And on top of the pile of clothes was a note.

It was written on a piece of lined notebook paper, the kind Marcus used for his grocery lists.

*I'm sorry, Thea. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse.*

I dropped the note. It fluttered to the floor, landing next to the box.

*She.*

Elowen Vance.

She had bought him out. She had paid him to leave. To erase himself.

To leave me alone in the house she was stealing.

I sank to the floor, clutching Marcus's hoodie to my chest. It smelled like him—like old spice and stale smoke.

He was gone. He had taken the money and run.

I was truly alone now.

Just me and the house.

And Elowen.

My phone buzzed again.

A Zillow notification.

*Open House Scheduled: Sunday, October 22, 1:00 PM - 4:00 PM.*

I looked at the date. Today was Wednesday. Four days.

I had four days to stop her.

I stood up. I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't going to fawn. I wasn't going to apologize.

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed the receipt for the paint. I put it in my pocket.

Then I walked to the garage door.

I opened it and stepped into the damp, chemical-smelling dark.

I walked to the center of the room, to the spot where Marcus's cot used to be.

I knelt down and touched the wet grey primer.

It was still tacky.

I dug my fingernails into it, scraping away the top layer.

Underneath, the white paint—*Swiss Coffee*—was still visible.

And underneath that...

I scraped harder. My nails hit something hard.

Wood.

There was a trapdoor under the paint.

A small, square panel, flush with the concrete floor. It had been painted over, sealed shut.

But the paint was fresh. It hadn't cured yet.

I used the scissors to pry up the edge of the panel. It groaned, the wet paint acting like glue, but it gave way.

I lifted the panel.

Below was a dark hole. A crawlspace.

The smell that drifted up wasn't paint. It wasn't "Clean Linen."

It was old air. Stale. Metallic.

I shined my phone flashlight into the hole.

It was shallow, maybe three feet deep. Dirt floor.

And sitting in the center of the crawlspace, wrapped in plastic sheeting, was a black duffel bag.

I reached down and grabbed the handle. It was heavy.

I pulled it up onto the garage floor.

I unzipped it.

Inside were papers. Stacks of them.

Lease agreements. Eviction notices.

And photographs.

Hundreds of photographs.

I picked up the top one.

It showed a living room. *My* living room. But the furniture was different. A blue velvet couch. A glass coffee table.

And sitting on the couch was a girl.

She was young. Maybe twenty-four. She had long dark hair and a bright, anxious smile.

She was holding a cat.

I turned the photo over.

Written on the back in blue ink was a date.

*October 14, 2023.*

And a name.

*Maya Bishop.*

I picked up another photo.

The same girl. In the kitchen. Cooking.

Another.

In the bedroom. Sleeping.

These weren't staging photos. These were surveillance photos.

Someone had been watching her. Just like they were watching me.

I dug deeper into the bag. Under the photos was a manila envelope.

*Gary Polzin - Personal.*

I opened it.

Inside was a bank statement.

*Account Balance: -$48,215.00.*

And a letter.

*Final Notice. Payment Due Immediately.*

The letterhead was from a company called *Vance Capital.*

Vance.

Elowen Vance.

Gary didn't just hire Elowen. He owed her money.

A lot of money.

And she was collecting.

"Well, well," a voice said from the doorway.

I spun around.

Gary was standing there.

He wasn't wearing his Kirkland jeans. He was wearing a suit. A cheap, ill-fitting suit that looked like he'd bought it at a thrift store on the way over.

He was holding a tire iron.

"I told Marcus to burn that bag," he said, his voice flat. "Useless kid. Can't even do one simple job."

"Where is he?" I asked, standing up. I held the scissors in front of me, the blade glinting in the dim light.

"He took the buyout," Gary said, stepping into the garage. "Smart kid. He knew when to fold."

"You killed Maya," I whispered.

Gary laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.

"I didn't kill anyone," he said. "The house did. Carbon monoxide. Tragic accident."

He looked at the hole in the floor.

"But accidents are expensive, Thea. Insurance investigations. Lawsuits. It's much cheaper to... rebrand."

He raised the tire iron.

"Elowen is very particular about her listings. She doesn't like loose ends."

I backed away, hitting the wall. I was trapped.

"You can't do this," I said. "People know I'm here."

"People think you're having a breakdown," Gary said. "Marcus told everyone. He told your mom. He told your boss. 'Thea is spiraling. She's seeing things.'"

He took another step.

"It's a very compelling narrative, don't you think?"

I looked at the open trapdoor. I looked at Gary.

I had one chance.

"Maybe," I said. "But you forgot one thing."

"What's that?"

"I changed the locks."

I threw the scissors at his face.

He flinched, raising the tire iron to deflect them.

It was enough.

I dove past him, sprinting for the door to the backyard.

I burst out into the night air, the grass wet and cold under my feet.

I didn't stop. I ran for the fence.

I could hear Gary behind me, cursing, his heavy footsteps pounding on the earth.

I reached the fence. It was six feet high. Wood.

I jumped, grabbing the top. Splinters dug into my palms. I pulled myself up.

A hand grabbed my ankle.

"Gotcha," Gary grunted.

I kicked out, my heel connecting with his face.

He yelled and let go.

I tumbled over the fence, landing hard on the other side.

I was in the neighbor's yard. Mrs. Gable's yard.

I scrambled to my feet and ran toward the street.

I needed to get to my car. I needed to get away.

But as I reached the sidewalk, I saw it.

Parked in front of my house.

The black SUV.

Elowen was leaning against the hood, checking her watch.

She looked up as I burst onto the street.

She didn't look surprised. She looked... bored.

"You're late, Thea," she said.

"The open house starts in four days."

She opened the back door of the SUV.

"Get in."

I looked back at the fence. Gary was climbing over it, the tire iron in his hand.

I looked at Elowen.

"Or don't," she said, shrugging. "Gary is... less patient than I am."

I looked at Gary. I looked at Elowen.

I made a choice.

I ran past Elowen, past the SUV, and into the darkness of the Greenbelt.

I heard Elowen sigh behind me.

"Messy," she said. "So messy."

And then I heard the sound of a car door closing.

And the engine revving.

They were coming.

Both of them.