The Attic Discovery

"The Confrontation," I said to myself, the words feeling brittle in my mouth. My hands were still shaking from the steering wheel, my palms slick with the residue of anxiety and stale hotel soap. Jordana was in the shower, washing off the soot and the fear, but I couldn't sit still.

I had the diary. I had the photos. I had the receipt from Home Depot with Marcus's signature.

But it wasn't enough.

I needed him to say it.

I pulled out my phone. It was 4:15 AM. The diner down the street from the motel—a 24-hour Waffle House that smelled of grease and desperation—was open. And if I knew Gary Polzin, he wasn't at home. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was stress-eating cheap carbs when his plans went sideways.

"I'm going out," I yelled toward the bathroom door.

"Don't do anything stupid," Jordana called back, her voice muffled by the water.

"Define stupid," I muttered, grabbing my keys.

I drove to the diner. My car, which I had miraculously retrieved from the street before Elowen could tow it, felt like a foreign object. The steering wheel was sticky. The rearview mirror showed a woman I didn't recognize—pale, wild-eyed, with soot smudged on her cheek like war paint.

I pulled into the parking lot. There it was. Gary's truck.

It was parked crookedly, taking up two spaces. A "Landlord of the Year" bumper sticker was peeling off the back bumper.

I walked inside. The diner was empty, save for a waitress wiping down the counter and a single figure in a booth at the back.

Gary.

He was hunched over a plate of hash browns, his face buried in his hands. He looked small. Defeated.

But then I remembered the tire iron. I remembered the way he had looked at me in the garage, like I was a problem to be solved with blunt force trauma.

I walked over to the booth and slid into the seat opposite him.

He jumped, his fork clattering onto the plate.

"Thea," he breathed. "What... what are you doing here?"

"We need to talk, Gary," I said. My voice was calm. Too calm. It sounded like the voice I used when editing a manual for a surgical laser—precise, detached, ready to cut.

"I can't," he said, looking around the empty diner. "Elowen... she'll kill me."

"She's already trying to kill *me*," I said. "Or have you forgotten the fire?"

Gary flinched. He looked down at his hash browns, pushing them around with his fork. "That wasn't supposed to happen. Marcus was just supposed to scare you. Get you out of the house."

"With a fire?" I asked. "In a house with faulty wiring and a gas heater?"

"I didn't know about the heater," he lied.

"Stop it," I snapped. "I found the diary. Maya's diary. I know about the headaches. I know about the CO detector you disabled."

Gary went still. His face drained of color, leaving him looking like a wax figure melting under a heat lamp.

"You have the diary?" he whispered.

"I do. And I have the photos from the attic. And the bank statements showing you owe Elowen fifty grand."

Gary put his head in his hands. A low moan escaped his lips.

"She's crazy, Thea. You don't understand. She came to me after Maya... after the accident. She said she knew. She said she had proof."

"So you let her take the house," I said.

"She offered to buy it," Gary said, his voice muffled. "Cash. More than it's worth. But she wanted it... staged. She wanted it perfect. For Maya."

"Maya is dead, Gary."

"I know!" he shouted, then lowered his voice as the waitress glared at us. "I know. But Elowen... she thinks she can bring her back. Or recreate her. Or something. She's recreating the timeline."

"And what am I?" I asked. "A prop?"

"You were a placeholder," Gary said. "Until the anniversary."

"The anniversary?"

"October 22nd," he said. "Sunday."

The day of the open house.

"What happens on Sunday, Gary?"

He looked up at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, terrified.

"She's not selling the house, Thea. She's... closing it."

"Closing it?"

"She's going to seal it up," he said. "Like a tomb. With everything inside. Including... the new tenant."

A chill ran down my spine.

"Me," I whispered.

"Why do you think she wanted you there?" Gary asked. "Why do you think she's been watching you? Learning your schedule? She's not just staging the furniture, Thea. She's staging *you*."

I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"You're going to the police," I said. "Right now. You're going to tell them everything."

Gary shook his head. "I can't. She has leverage. She has photos... of me... moving the body."

I stared at him. The revulsion was a physical weight in my stomach.

"You moved her?"

"I had to," he sobbed. "I couldn't let them find her in the house. The property value..."

"You are a monster," I said.

"I'm a businessman!" he cried. "I was trying to save my investment!"

I turned to leave. I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't breathe the same air.

"Thea, wait," he called out. "You don't understand. Elowen isn't just crazy. She's... connected."

I stopped. "Connected how?"

"Vance Capital," he said. "It's not just her. It's a whole network. They buy distressed properties. Properties with... histories. And they clean them."

"Clean them?"

"They erase them," Gary said. "Like they never existed. And anyone who gets in the way... they get erased too."

He looked at me, his eyes pleading.

"You need to run, Thea. Far away. Leave the state. Leave the country. Don't go back to that house."

"I have to go back," I said. "I left something there."

"What?"

"My life," I said.

I walked out of the diner. The night air was thick and heavy, smelling of rain and impending doom.

I got into my car. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely put the key in the ignition.

I needed to call Jordana. I needed to tell her about the anniversary. About Vance Capital.

But as I reached for my phone, I saw it.

Sitting on the passenger seat.

A small, white envelope.

It hadn't been there when I parked.

I picked it up. My name was written on the front.

*Thea.*

I tore it open.

Inside was a single photograph.

It showed me, sitting in the booth at the diner, talking to Gary.

The timestamp was from two minutes ago.

But the angle wasn't from inside the diner.

It was from the window.

I looked up.

Standing across the parking lot, under the flickering neon sign of a pawn shop, was a figure.

It was wearing a black hoodie.

It raised a hand and waved.

Then it turned and walked into the darkness.

But before it disappeared, I saw something glinting in its hand.

It wasn't a camera.

It was a key.

My key.

The one Marcus had stolen.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

*You don't want to end up like her, Thea.*

*Run.*