Setting the Trap

"Jordana's Plan," I repeated, my voice hoarse from the smoke and the screaming. We were huddled in the corner booth of the 24-hour Waffle House, the only place Jordana deemed safe enough to regroup. Marcus was sitting next to me, his hands still trembling as he clutched a mug of black coffee. The small, metal box he had rescued from the fire sat on the table between us, a silent, soot-covered testament to our survival.

"It's a Hail Mary," Jordana admitted, stabbing at her hash browns with a plastic fork. "But it's the only play we have left. Elowen isn't just a grieving mother anymore. She's a cornerstone investor in Vance Capital. She owns the land. She owns the debt. She owns the police department, apparently."

"She owns everything," Marcus muttered, staring into his coffee.

I looked at him. He looked like a ghost. The fire had singed his eyebrows and left a smudge of soot across his cheek that looked like a bruise.

"Not everything," I said, reaching for the metal box. "She doesn't own this."

I opened the lid.

Inside was a stack of index cards. They were old, yellowed, and covered in a tight, frantic scrawl.

*February 12: Gary stopped by. Asked about the heater again. Said it was 'expensive' to fix. He looked at me like I was the expensive part.*

*March 4: Elowen came over. She brought me tea. It tasted funny. I slept for twelve hours.*

*April 15: I found a camera in the smoke detector. I took it down. Gary put it back up the next day.*

These weren't diary entries. They were logs. Evidence logs.

And at the bottom of the box was a USB drive.

"What's on that?" Jordana asked, leaning forward.

"I don't know," I said. "But Maya died protecting it."

I looked around the diner. It was empty, save for a trucker in the corner and a waitress who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.

"We need a computer," I said. "A secure one. Not connected to the Wi-Fi."

"I have a laptop in my car," Jordana said. "Burner laptop. Air-gapped."

She ran out to the parking lot and came back a moment later with a thick, black toughbook. She set it on the table and booted it up.

I plugged in the drive.

A single video file popped up.

*Maya_Confession.mp4.*

I clicked play.

The video was grainy, shot in low light. It showed Maya sitting on the floor of the nursery—my office—holding a newspaper with the date clearly visible. *October 14, 2023.*

"My name is Maya Bishop," she said to the camera. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were terrified. "If you're watching this, I'm probably dead. Or gone."

She held up a piece of paper.

"This is a structural engineering report for 104 Hydrangea Lane. It says the foundation is cracked. The gas lines are corroded. The whole house is a ticking time bomb. Gary knows. He bribed the inspector to pass it."

She put the paper down.

"But that's not the worst part. Elowen... she's not just staging the house. She's living in it. She comes in while I'm asleep. She moves things. She watches me."

Maya leaned closer to the camera.

"She thinks I'm her daughter. Her dead daughter. She calls me 'Sarah'. She brings me clothes that smell like old perfume. And she keeps talking about a 'reunion'."

The video cut to black.

I stared at the blank screen.

"Sarah," Jordana whispered. "That was the name on the mugshot. Sarah Miller."

"Elowen isn't Maya's mother," I realized, the horror washing over me like ice water. "She's a stalker. A delusional stalker who latched onto Maya because she looked like the daughter she killed in the fire."

"And now she's latched onto you," Marcus said quietly.

"Because I look like Maya," I said. "The dark hair. The build. We could be sisters."

"We have to get this to the FBI," Jordana said, slamming the laptop shut. "Local cops won't touch it. Gary has them in his pocket."

"We can't just walk into the FBI," I said. "We need leverage. We need to catch them in the act."

"How?" Marcus asked. "The house is burned. The evidence is gone."

"Not all of it," I said. "The open house is still happening. Sunday. 1 PM."

I looked at Jordana.

"We're going to give them a show," I said. "We're going to stage a scene they can't erase."

"What kind of scene?" Jordana asked, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"A resurrection," I said.

Sunday morning dawned hot and humid, the kind of Georgia heat that made the air feel like a wet blanket. I stood in front of the mirror in the motel bathroom, staring at my reflection.

I had dyed my hair black. I had cut it into a bob, just like Maya's in the photos. I was wearing a vintage dress I had found at a thrift store—one that looked exactly like the dress Maya was wearing in the surveillance photos.

"You look like a ghost," Marcus said from the doorway.

"That's the point," I said.

We drove to Hydrangea Lane in silence. The street was lined with cars. Prospective buyers. Developers. Rubberneckers who had heard about the fire and wanted to see the ruin.

But the house wasn't a ruin.

It was pristine.

The scorched siding had been replaced. The windows were new. The lawn was freshly sodded. Elowen had worked a miracle. Or a curse.

"She's fast," Jordana muttered from the backseat.

"She's motivated," I said.

We parked down the street. I got out, smoothing my dress. I put on a pair of oversized sunglasses.

"Ready?" Jordana asked. She was holding a camera with a telephoto lens.

"Ready," I said.

I walked toward the house. I joined the line of people waiting to get in. I kept my head down, blending in with the crowd.

Gary was at the door, shaking hands, smiling like he hadn't just tried to murder his tenant three days ago. He looked tired, though. His suit was rumpled. His eyes were darting around nervously.

I walked past him. He didn't even look at me. He was too busy looking for a woman with brown hair and a cast-iron skillet.

I stepped into the foyer.

It was perfect. The "Clean Linen" scent was overpowering. The furniture was arranged for maximum flow.

And in the living room, holding court, was Elowen.

She was wearing a white dress. She looked radiant. Triumphant.

"Welcome," she was saying to a couple. "This is the heart of the home. Notice the light. The energy."

I walked up behind her.

"Hello, Mother," I whispered.

Elowen froze. She turned slowly.

Her eyes widened when she saw me. She took a step back, her hand going to her throat.

"Sarah?" she breathed.

"No," I said, taking off my sunglasses. "It's Thea."

The crowd went silent. Gary pushed his way through the people in the hallway.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed. "You're trespassing!"

"I'm just here for the open house," I said loudly. "I heard it was a killer deal."

I reached into my bag and pulled out the metal box.

"I found this in the basement," I said, holding it up. "Before you burned it down."

Gary lunged for me.

"Stop!" Elowen screamed.

She wasn't looking at Gary. She was looking at the box.

"That's mine," she whispered. "That's Sarah's."

"It's Maya's," I said. "And it proves you killed her."

I opened the box and took out the USB drive.

"I sent a copy of this to the FBI this morning," I lied. "They're on their way. But I wanted you to see it first."

I walked to the smart TV mounted above the fireplace. Elowen had left it on, playing a slideshow of "lifestyle" photos.

I plugged the drive into the side of the TV.

The video of Maya appeared on the screen. Her terrified face, looming large over the room.

*My name is Maya Bishop...*

The crowd gasped. Phones came out. People started recording.

Gary looked at Elowen. "Do something!"

Elowen stared at the screen. Tears were streaming down her face.

"She was so beautiful," she whispered. "Just like Sarah."

"She wasn't Sarah!" I shouted. "She was Maya! And you killed her because she wouldn't play your game!"

"No," Elowen said, shaking her head. "I saved her. I saved her from the mess."

She reached into her pocket.

I braced myself for a gun. For a lighter.

But she pulled out a key.

A shiny, brass key.

"This is the key to the nursery," she said, holding it up. "It's the only room that's safe."

She looked at me, her eyes pleading.

"Go upstairs, Thea. Go to the nursery. Sarah is waiting for you."

I looked at the key. I looked at the crowd. I looked at Gary, who was backing toward the door.

"The nursery is empty, Elowen," I said. "You burned it."

"No," she said. "I fixed it. I made it perfect again."

She threw the key at me. It landed at my feet.

"Go see," she whispered.

I hesitated. Was it a trap?

But then I heard a sound from upstairs.

A soft, rhythmic creak.

The rocking chair.

And then, a cry.

A baby's cry.

I looked up at the ceiling.

"That's not possible," I whispered.

"Go see," Elowen repeated.

I grabbed the key and ran for the stairs.

The crowd parted for me. I ran up the steps, my heart pounding in my ears.

I reached the nursery door. It was new. Freshly painted.

I unlocked it.

I pushed the door open.

The room was pristine. White walls. White crib. White rocking chair.

And sitting in the chair, rocking back and forth, was a woman.

She had her back to me. She was humming a lullaby.

"Maya?" I whispered.

The woman stopped rocking. She turned slowly.

It wasn't Maya.

It wasn't Elowen.

It was a mannequin.

A store mannequin, dressed in a grey sweatshirt and jeans. It had a blonde wig.

And in its lap, it was holding a bundle.

A bundle that was moving.

And crying.

I walked toward it, my legs trembling.

I reached out and pulled back the blanket.

It wasn't a baby.

It was a tablet. Playing a video loop of a crying infant.

And taped to the screen was a note.

*You should have left when you had the chance.*

I heard a click behind me.

The door locked.

And then, the smell hit me.

Gas.

Heavy, cloying, suffocating gas.

The vents were hissing.

"Elowen!" I screamed, pounding on the door.

"Hush now," her voice came through the baby monitor on the dresser. "It's nap time."

I ran to the window. It was nailed shut.

I grabbed the mannequin and threw it through the glass.

The window shattered.

But there were bars on the outside. New, iron security bars.

I was trapped.

And the room was filling with gas.

I looked down at the cul-de-sac.

The crowd was gone. The police sirens were wailing in the distance, but they were too far away.

Only one person was left on the lawn.

Marcus.

He was looking up at the window. He saw me.

He raised his hand.

He was holding a lighter.

And he was smiling.