Living in the Walls

"The Police Report," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the small, sterile interview room. The plastic chair was hard beneath me, and the air smelled of stale coffee and bureaucratic indifference. I had been waiting for forty-five minutes.

Finally, the door opened. A young officer walked in, holding a clipboard. He looked bored.

"Ms. Minter?" he asked, not looking up. "Says here you want to report a... trespassing incident?"

"Yes," I said, leaning forward. "My landlord, Gary Polzin. And a woman named Elowen Vance. They broke into my house."

The officer sighed, clicking his pen. "Did they break a window? Kick down a door?"

"No," I said. "They have keys. But I didn't authorize it. And they... they staged it."

"Staged it?" He looked up, confused.

"They moved my furniture," I said, hearing how ridiculous it sounded even as the words left my mouth. "They put a nursery in my office. They painted the walls."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "So your landlord painted the walls. Is that it?"

"No! They're trying to push me out. They're watching me. There are cameras."

"Cameras?"

"Hidden cameras," I said. "In the smoke detectors. In the vents. I found a live feed on a laptop in my attic."

The officer wrote something down. It didn't look like *hidden cameras*. It looked like *paranoid*.

"And this laptop," he said. "Do you have it?"

"No," I admitted. "I left it in the attic. I had to run."

"Run from who?"

"From Elowen. She was in the attic. She tried to kill me."

The officer stopped writing. He looked at me for a long moment.

"Tried to kill you," he repeated. "How?"

"She... she had a lighter," I stammered. "She was going to burn the house down."

"Did she start a fire?"

"No. I escaped before she could."

He leaned back in his chair. "Ms. Minter, let me get this straight. You're saying your landlord and a woman—who you claim is a famous TikTok personality—are secretly living in your attic, rearranging your furniture, and plotting to burn down the house because... why?"

"Because of Maya Bishop," I said.

The officer blinked. "Who?"

"The previous tenant. She disappeared. Gary told everyone she broke her lease, but I think she died in the house. Carbon monoxide poisoning. From a faulty heater."

"Carbon monoxide," he said flatly.

"Yes. And Elowen... she's Maya's mother. She's trying to find out what happened."

The officer closed his folder. "Okay. Wait here."

He walked out.

I sat there, my hands trembling in my lap. I knew how it sounded. I sounded crazy. I sounded like the hysterical woman in every thriller movie who nobody believes until the body count starts rising.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again.

But it wasn't the young officer.

It was an older man. He wasn't wearing a uniform. He was wearing a rumpled suit.

"Ms. Minter," he said. "I'm Detective Hatcher."

He sat down across from me. He didn't have a clipboard. He just looked at me, his eyes tired and cynical.

"We got a call about 104 Hydrangea Lane," he said. "From Gary Polzin."

My stomach dropped. "Gary called you?"

"Yeah. About an hour ago. Reported a break-in."

"He broke in!" I shouted.

"According to Mr. Polzin," Hatcher said calmly, "he went to the property to perform emergency maintenance on a gas leak. When he arrived, he found the back door smashed in. And his tenant—that's you—fleeing the scene."

"That's a lie!" I said. "There was no gas leak!"

"He also mentioned that he found evidence of illegal subletting," Hatcher continued. "Someone living in the garage."

"Marcus," I whispered.

"And," Hatcher said, leaning in, "he claims you've been stealing property from the attic and selling it online. High-value antique dolls. Jewelry."

I froze.

"He has screenshots, Ms. Minter. eBay listings. Under your username."

"Those were abandoned!" I said. "He told me I could clear out the attic!"

"He says he told you to leave it alone. That it belonged to his late mother."

"His mother?" I laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. "Those things belonged to Maya Bishop!"

Hatcher's expression didn't change. "We looked up Maya Bishop. There's no record of a tenant by that name at that address. The previous tenant was a man named Steve Jenkins. Lived there for five years."

"That's what Gary told you," I said. "He erased her. He erased everything."

Hatcher sighed. He stood up.

"Look, Ms. Minter. Right now, it's your word against the property owner's. And frankly, his story has physical evidence. Yours has... theories."

"So you're not going to help me?" I asked, tears stinging my eyes.

"I'm going to advise you to go home," Hatcher said. "If you can. Mr. Polzin has filed for an emergency eviction order. And a restraining order."

"A restraining order?"

"Against you. He claims you threatened him with a pair of scissors."

I stared at him. The scissors. In the garage.

"I was defending myself," I whispered.

"That's not what the other witness says."

"Other witness?"

"Ms. Vance," Hatcher said. "She corroborated Mr. Polzin's statement. Said she saw you attack him unprovoked."

Elowen. Of course.

"She's lying," I said. "They're working together."

Hatcher opened the door. "Go home, Ms. Minter. Pack your things. If you go back to that property after Sunday, we'll have to arrest you for trespassing."

Sunday. The open house.

"They're going to sell it," I said. "They're going to destroy the evidence."

"If there is evidence," Hatcher said, "we'll find it. But right now? You're the suspect."

He gestured to the hallway.

I walked out of the station, the morning sun blinding me.

I was alone. Marcus was gone. The police thought I was a thief and a squatter. And in two days, the only proof that Maya Bishop ever existed would be sold to the highest bidder.

I got into my car. My phone buzzed.

A text from Jordana.

*I found something. Meet me at the library.*

I drove to the Buckhead library. Jordana was waiting at a back table, surrounded by stacks of old newspapers.

"What is it?" I asked, sitting down.

She pushed a microfiche printout toward me.

It was an obituary. From the *Atlanta Journal-Constitution*. Dated October 16, 2023.

*Jane Doe found in Chattahoochee River. Young female, approx 20-25 years old.*

"They never identified her," Jordana said. "But look at the jewelry description."

I looked.

*Wearing a silver locket. Inscription illegible due to water damage.*

"It's her," I whispered. "It's Maya."

"Gary dumped her," Jordana said. "He didn't just move her. He threw her away like trash."

"But the locket," I said. "I found the locket in the attic. How could she be wearing it?"

Jordana frowned. "Maybe she had two? Or maybe..."

She stopped. She looked at the photo of the locket I had shown her earlier. The one from Elowen.

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

"The clasp," Jordana whispered.

She grabbed my phone. She zoomed in on the photo Elowen had sent.

The clasp of the locket was broken.

"It wasn't in the attic because she left it there," Jordana said. "It was in the attic because it fell off."

"Fell off when?"

"When Gary moved the body," she said.

My blood ran cold.

"He carried her up there," I realized. "Before he moved her to the river. He hid her in the attic."

"And that's why the attic is staged," Jordana said. "Elowen isn't living up there to watch you, Thea. She's living up there because that's the last place her daughter was."

"But she doesn't know," I said. "She thinks Maya died in the nursery."

"Maybe," Jordana said. "Or maybe she's getting close to the truth."

She looked at me.

"We have to get back in there. Tonight."

"I can't," I said. "Gary filed a restraining order. If I go back, I go to jail."

"Then we don't get caught," Jordana said. "We need hard evidence. The diary isn't enough. We need something that links Gary to the river."

"Like what?"

"Like the car," Jordana said. "Gary's old truck. He sold it right after Maya disappeared. But I tracked it down. It's in a scrapyard in Macon."

"Macon is two hours away."

"Then we better start driving," Jordana said, standing up.

"Wait," I said.

I looked at the obituary again.

There was something else. A small detail at the bottom.

*Survived by no known next of kin.*

"If Elowen is her mother," I said slowly, "why didn't she claim the body?"

Jordana looked at me. "Because Elowen Vance didn't exist three years ago."

"What?"

"I ran her background," Jordana said. "Elowen Vance is a ghost. No credit history before 2024. No birth certificate."

"Then who is she?"

Jordana pulled out another piece of paper. A mugshot.

It was a younger, harder version of Elowen. No makeup. No blonde bob.

*Inmate: Sarah Miller.*
*Charge: Arson. Attempted Murder.*

"She burned down her last house," Jordana said. "With her husband inside."

I stared at the photo.

"She's not a grieving mother," I whispered.

"She's a pyromaniac," Jordana said. "And she's not looking for answers, Thea. She's looking for a reason to light the match."