The Motel

"The Buyer," I whispered, staring at the screen of the laptop. It was 3 AM on a Wednesday. Marcus was asleep in the master bedroom, the door closed and locked—by me, this time. I was in the attic, huddled under a blanket with Maya's diary and my laptop.

I had been researching for hours. Property records. LLCs. Shell companies.

And finally, a hit.

A new deed transfer for 104 Hydrangea Lane had been filed with the county clerk yesterday.

*Buyer: Vance Capital LLC.*
*Purchase Price: $850,000.*
*Status: Pending.*

It wasn't Gary selling to a developer. It was Gary selling to Elowen.

Or rather, Elowen buying Gary's silence.

The transaction was marked "cash offer." And the closing date?

*Sunday, October 22.*

The day of the open house.

The day I was supposed to be gone.

"She's buying the evidence," I said to the empty attic. "She's buying the crime scene."

If Elowen owned the house, she could do whatever she wanted with it. She could renovate. She could demolish. She could erase every trace of Maya Bishop, including the carbon monoxide detector logs and the stains on the nursery wall.

And she could evict me. Legally.

I looked at Maya's diary, lying open on the floor next to me.

*October 10, 2023: El says she found a buyer. A cash offer. She says Gary is going to take it. She says I need to be out by the 15th. But I have nowhere to go.*

Five days before she disappeared.

Elowen had tried to buy the house then, too. But something had stopped her.

Maya had stopped her.

How?

I flipped through the pages, looking for a clue.

*October 12, 2023: I told Gary about the heater. I told him I know it's not up to code. I told him I'm not leaving until he fixes it or pays me to leave. He got angry. He said I was 'complicating things.'*

Maya had leverage. She knew about the heater. She knew the house was dangerous.

And that's why she died.

Because a dangerous house is cheaper to sell than a safe one, especially if the tenant is dead.

I heard a noise downstairs.

A heavy *thump*. Like a door closing.

I froze. Marcus was asleep. I had checked.

I crawled to the edge of the attic opening and peered through the crack in the panel.

The hallway was dark.

But then, a beam of light cut through the gloom. A flashlight.

It swept across the walls, illuminating the family photos I had hung—photos that Elowen had replaced with generic art prints just yesterday.

The beam stopped on the nursery door.

A figure stepped into the light.

It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't Gary.

It was Elowen.

She was wearing black leggings and a black hoodie. She looked less like a lifestyle curator and more like a cat burglar.

She reached for the nursery door handle. It was locked. I had locked it from the inside before climbing into the attic.

She jiggled the handle. Then she pulled a small tool from her pocket. A lock pick.

She worked quickly, efficiently. The lock clicked.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

I held my breath. She was directly below me. If I made a sound, she would hear it.

I watched through the crack as she walked to the closet. She opened it. She reached up to the top shelf.

She was looking for the box. Maya's memory box.

But it wasn't there.

I had it. It was sitting next to me in the attic.

Elowen cursed. A sharp, ugly sound.

She turned and scanned the room. Her flashlight beam swept over the desk, the chair, the rug.

Then she looked up.

Right at the ceiling.

Right at the attic panel.

I scrambled back, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would break my ribs. I turned off my laptop, plunging the attic into darkness.

"I know you're up there, Thea," she said.

Her voice wasn't loud. It was conversational. Intimate. Like we were sharing a secret.

"I can hear you breathing."

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

"You have something of mine," she said. "The box. And the diary."

She walked out of the nursery. I heard her footsteps in the hallway.

She was standing right under the attic access.

"You're a smart girl," she said. "You figured it out. But you're missing one piece of the puzzle."

She paused.

"Gary didn't kill Maya," she whispered.

"I did."

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking out.

"It was an accident," she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "I just wanted her to sleep. She was so... manic. So messy. I gave her something to help her sleep. And then I lit a candle. Lavender. To calm the energy."

She laughed, a short, bitter sound.

"I didn't know about the heater. Gary never told me. The candle used up the oxygen. The CO built up. And she just... drifted away."

She hit the ceiling panel with her fist.

*Thump.*

"It was peaceful, Thea. It was clean."

She hit it again. Harder.

*Thump.*

"Now give me the diary. And the box. And we can end this peacefully too."

I looked around the attic. I was trapped. The only way out was down.

Through her.

I grabbed the heavy box of "Attic Junk." It was filled with old textbooks and broken ceramics.

I crawled to the panel.

"Open it," Elowen said. "Open it, Thea."

I took a deep breath.

"Okay," I said. "I'm opening it."

I pulled the string. The panel unlatched.

I shoved it open.

Elowen looked up, her flashlight blinding me.

"Good girl," she said.

I tipped the box over the edge.

It crashed down on her. Books, ceramics, dust—all of it rained down on her head.

She screamed and fell backward, dropping the flashlight.

I didn't wait. I jumped.

I landed on the hallway floor, rolling to absorb the impact. Elowen was on the ground, groaning, covered in debris.

I scrambled to my feet and ran for the stairs.

"Get her!" Elowen shrieked.

I looked back.

Marcus was standing in his bedroom doorway. He was awake. He was watching.

"Marcus!" I yelled. "Help me!"

He looked at me. He looked at Elowen, who was struggling to her feet, blood trickling down her forehead.

He didn't move.

He just stood there, his face blank, his eyes empty.

"I can't," he whispered.

"The deposit cleared."

I turned and ran down the stairs, tears blurring my vision.

He had sold me out. Again.

I reached the front door. Locked. I fumbled with the deadbolt.

"Thea!" Elowen screamed from the top of the stairs. She was running now, charging down the hallway.

I got the door open. I burst out onto the porch.

The night air was cool.

I ran to my car. I fumbled for my keys.

And then I saw it.

My car was gone.

The driveway was empty.

"Looking for this?"

I spun around.

Gary was standing in the driveway, leaning against his truck. He was holding my car keys.

"Repossessed," he said, grinning. "Clause 14C. Landlord right to secure assets in event of lease violation."

I was trapped.

Elowen was behind me. Gary was in front of me.

I looked at the street.

Empty.

Except for one car.

A silver sedan parked under the streetlight.

The engine was running.

The driver's side door opened.

"Get in," a woman's voice said.

I looked.

It was Jordana.

I didn't ask questions. I ran.

I dove into the passenger seat just as Gary lunged for me. Jordana floored it, the tires screeching as we peeled away from the curb.

I looked back.

Elowen and Gary were standing in the driveway, watching us go.

They weren't chasing us.

They were smiling.

And then I saw why.

In the rearview mirror, reflected in the red glow of the taillights, I saw the backseat.

It wasn't empty.

Sitting there, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, was a cat.

A black cat with a white spot on its chest.

The same cat from the photo of Maya Bishop.

"You forgot something," Jordana said, her voice tight.

She handed me a piece of paper.

It was a flyer.

*Open House: Sunday, October 22.*

*Featuring: The Maya Bishop Collection.*

*Auction starts at 1 PM.*

They weren't just selling the house.

They were selling the evidence.

And they were selling it as art.