The Basement

"The Trap," Jordana called it, but as I sat in the driver's seat of her Honda Civic, parked three houses down from my own, it felt more like a cage match. The sun had finally given up, sinking below the tree line and leaving Hydrangea Lane in a wash of twilight that made the manicured lawns look like grey velvet.

"Are you sure the cameras are working?" I asked, checking my phone for the third time. The live feed from the nursery showed a grainy, black-and-white view of the crib. The red paint had dried into a crusty, rust-colored mess that looked disturbingly organic.

"They're working," Jordana said, not looking up from her laptop. She was tapping away, the blue light of the screen reflecting in her glasses. "Motion sensors are active. Audio is live. If a mouse farts in that house, we'll know."

"And the bait?"

"The fake locket is on the counter. Right where you left it."

I leaned back, closing my eyes. I could still smell the paint fumes in my hair, a chemical tang that mingled with the stale coffee from the diner. Marcus was asleep in the backseat, his head resting against the window, his mouth slightly open. He looked innocent. But I knew better. I knew he had taken the money. I knew he had dug the hole.

"He's going to wake up eventually," I whispered.

"Let him sleep," Jordana said. "We need him fresh for the finale."

"The finale," I repeated. "You sound like you're enjoying this."

Jordana stopped typing. She looked at me, her face serious. "I'm not enjoying it, Thea. I'm finishing it. Maya deserves that much."

We waited.

Eight o'clock came and went. Nine o'clock. The streetlights flickered on, casting long, skeletal shadows across the pavement. A few cars drove by—neighbors coming home from late dinners, teenagers sneaking out—but no black SUV. No Gary. No Elowen.

"Maybe she's not coming," I said, my anxiety spiking. "Maybe she knows."

"She doesn't know," Jordana said. "She's arrogant. She thinks she owns the board. She thinks you're just a pawn."

But I wasn't a pawn. I was the glitch. I was the variable she hadn't accounted for.

At 10:15, a car turned onto the street.

It wasn't an SUV. It was a beat-up Ford truck.

Gary's truck.

He pulled into my driveway, the headlights cutting through the darkness. He got out, looking around nervously. He wasn't wearing a suit this time. He was wearing coveralls and carrying a toolbox.

"What is he doing?" I whispered.

"He's fixing the damage," Jordana said, leaning closer to the laptop. "He can't have a crime scene on closing day."

We watched on the screen as Gary unlocked the front door. He stepped inside, the toolbox clanking against his leg.

The feed from the hallway camera showed him stopping dead. He was looking at the red paint splattered across the walls. He dropped the toolbox.

"Jesus Christ," his voice came through the speakers, tinny and distorted.

He walked into the living room. He saw the rug. He saw the overturned furniture.

He started to shake.

"She's crazy," he muttered. "She's actually crazy."

He pulled out his phone. He dialed a number.

"Pick up," he hissed. "Pick up, you psycho."

Elowen didn't pick up.

Gary paced the room, running his hands through his thinning hair. "I can't do this. I can't clean this up. It's too much."

He kicked the wall.

Then, he stopped. He looked at the kitchen counter.

He saw the locket.

He walked over to it, his movements slow, hesitant. He picked it up.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."

He knew what it was. He knew who it belonged to.

He put the locket in his pocket. Then he grabbed a bottle of bleach from under the sink and started scrubbing the wall.

"He's destroying evidence," I said, my hand on the door handle.

"Wait," Jordana said. "Let him work. Let him get tired."

We watched for an hour. Gary scrubbed. He painted. He moved furniture. He was sweating, panting, muttering to himself the whole time.

"I didn't mean to," he said to the empty room. "I just wanted to save money. The heater was fine. It was just a little leak."

I felt a cold rage settle in my chest. *A little leak.* That little leak had killed a girl.

At 11:30, another car pulled up.

This time, it was the black SUV.

Elowen.

She got out, looking impeccable in a white trench coat. She walked up the driveway, her heels clicking on the concrete. She didn't knock. She used her key.

She stepped into the hallway.

Gary spun around, the bleach bottle in his hand.

"You!" he shouted. "Look what she did! Look at this mess!"

Elowen didn't look at the mess. She looked at Gary.

"Calm down, Gary," she said, her voice smooth, soothing. "It's just paint. We can fix it."

"Fix it?" Gary screamed. "It's a disaster! The open house is in two days! And she knows, Elowen! She knows about Maya!"

"She knows nothing," Elowen said. "She's a hysterical girl with an overactive imagination. And you're making it worse by panicking."

She walked over to him. She took the bleach bottle from his hand.

"Go home, Gary. Get some sleep. I'll handle this."

"Handle it how?" Gary asked. "Like you handled the last one?"

The room went silent.

Elowen's smile didn't waver, but her eyes went cold.

"I handled the last one just fine," she said softly. "Didn't I?"

Gary flinched. He backed away.

"You're sick," he whispered.

"I'm efficient," Elowen corrected. "Now go. Before you make another mistake."

Gary looked at her, then at the door. He turned and ran.

We watched him drive away.

Elowen was alone in the house.

She didn't start cleaning. She walked to the kitchen counter. She looked at the spot where the locket had been.

"Clever girl," she whispered.

She knew Gary had taken it.

She walked to the living room. She looked directly at the smoke detector.

Directly at the camera.

She smiled.

"Are you watching, Thea?" she asked.

My breath caught in my throat.

"I know you are," she continued. "I can feel you. You're just like her. Always watching. Always judging."

She reached up and tapped the lens.

*Tap. Tap. Tap.*

"Come home, Thea," she said. "It's time for bed."

Then she reached into her coat pocket.

She pulled out a hammer.

She swung it.

The screen went black.

"She smashed the camera," Jordana said.

"She knows we're here," I said.

"No," Jordana said. "She knows you're watching. She doesn't know *where* you are."

We checked the other feeds.

The kitchen camera was down. The hallway camera was down.

Only the nursery camera was still active.

Elowen walked into the nursery. She was still holding the hammer.

She walked to the crib. She looked at the red paint splattered on the white wood.

She reached out and touched it. She rubbed the paint between her fingers.

Then she brought her fingers to her mouth.

And she tasted it.

I gagged.

"It's paint," she whispered. "Just paint."

She looked disappointed.

She turned to the rocking chair. She sat down. She placed the hammer on her lap.

And she began to rock.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

"We have to go in," I said. "She's unarmed. Well, except for the hammer."

"We wait," Jordana said. "We wait until she falls asleep."

We waited.

Midnight came. Then 1 AM.

Elowen didn't sleep. She just rocked.

At 2 AM, Marcus woke up in the backseat. He groaned, rubbing his neck.

"What's happening?" he asked, his voice groggy.

"She's still in there," I said. "Just sitting."

"Waiting," Marcus said.

"For what?"

"For you," he said. "She's not going to leave, Thea. She lives there now."

I looked at the screen. The nursery was dark, lit only by the streetlamp outside. Elowen was a shadow in the chair.

Then, she stood up.

She walked to the wall. To the spot where I had written *She never woke up.*

She picked up a rag. She started to scrub.

But she wasn't using bleach.

She was using something else.

I squinted at the screen.

It was a lighter.

She flicked it on. The flame danced against the wall.

"She's going to burn it," I said. "She's going to finish what she started."

"We have to stop her," Jordana said.

She grabbed the door handle.

"Wait," Marcus said. "Look."

He pointed to the screen.

Elowen wasn't burning the wall. She was heating something up.

A pipe.

A gas pipe that ran along the baseboard.

"She's not starting a fire," Marcus whispered. "She's melting the seal."

"Gas," I said. "She's filling the room with gas."

"If she lights that lighter again..." Jordana said.

"Boom," Marcus finished.

We didn't wait. We scrambled out of the car.

We ran across the street, our footsteps pounding on the asphalt.

We reached the front door. Locked.

I fumbled for the key—the one Gary had dropped in the diner, the one I had picked up.

I jammed it into the lock. It turned.

We burst into the foyer.

The smell of gas hit us instantly. It was thick, heavy, suffocating.

"Elowen!" I screamed. "Don't do it!"

I ran for the stairs.

"Thea, wait!" Jordana yelled.

I didn't wait. I took the stairs two at a time.

I reached the landing. The nursery door was closed.

I could hear the hissing. Louder now.

I grabbed the handle.

It was hot.

I used my shirt to turn it. I kicked the door open.

Elowen was standing in the center of the room. The lighter was in her hand. The flame was lit.

She looked at me. Her eyes were calm. Peaceful.

"You're just in time," she said.

"Put it out!" I shouted. "You'll kill us all!"

"That's the point, dear," she said. "We're all just tenants here. It's time to vacate."

She raised the lighter.

"No!" Marcus screamed from behind me.

He rushed past me. He tackled Elowen.

The lighter flew out of her hand.

It tumbled through the air, end over end.

It hit the floor.

The flame stayed lit.

It rolled toward the curtains.

The fabric caught instantly.

Fire roared up the wall, feeding on the gas.

"Run!" Marcus yelled. He was wrestling Elowen on the floor. She was fighting him, clawing at his face.

"Marcus!" I screamed.

"Get out!" he shouted. "Get Thea out!"

Jordana grabbed me. She pulled me toward the door.

"We have to go!"

I looked back. Marcus had Elowen pinned. But the fire was spreading fast. It was climbing the walls, consuming the ceiling.

"I'm not leaving you!" I yelled.

"Go!" Marcus screamed. "I got this! Go!"

Jordana dragged me into the hallway. The heat was intense. The smoke was blinding.

We ran down the stairs. We burst out the front door.

We collapsed on the lawn, gasping for air.

The upstairs window—the nursery window—shattered.

Flames shot out into the night.

"Marcus!" I screamed.

I tried to run back, but Jordana held me down.

"It's too late," she sobbed. "It's too late."

We watched the house burn.

The neighbors came out. They stood on their lawns, watching in silence.

And then, a figure appeared in the doorway.

It was Marcus.

He was coughing, stumbling. He was carrying something.

Not Elowen.

He was carrying the box. The metal box from the basement.

He collapsed on the porch.

I broke free from Jordana and ran to him.

"Marcus!"

He looked up at me. His face was black with soot.

"I got it," he wheezed. "I got the proof."

He held up the box.

But behind him, in the inferno of the living room, I saw a shadow.

Elowen.

She was standing in the fire. She wasn't screaming. She wasn't running.

She was watching us.

And she was smiling.

Then the roof collapsed.