Elowen's Return

"Elowen's Return," I whispered, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. I stood in the darkness of the basement, my phone light reflecting off the duct-taped heater, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of something that wasn't "Clean Linen."

It smelled like gunpowder.

And expensive perfume.

I turned slowly.

Elowen Vance was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

She wasn't wearing her white trench coat. She was wearing black leggings and a fitted black hoodie, the uniform of a woman who had come to do work. Dirty work.

In her right hand, she held a flashlight.

In her left, she held a gun.

A small, silver pistol. It looked almost elegant in her manicured hand.

"You really should have left, Thea," she said. Her voice wasn't sweet anymore. It wasn't the voice of the benevolent fairy godmother from TikTok. It was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of empathy. "The open house is going to be spectacular. And you're ruining the aesthetic."

I took a step back, my heel hitting the rusted metal of the heater. "You knew," I said. "You knew about the heater."

"Of course I knew," Elowen said, stepping off the last stair. "Gary is a cheap, pathetic little man. He thought duct tape was a renovation strategy. He killed my daughter with his incompetence."

She raised the flashlight, sweeping the beam over the basement. The light caught the cobwebs, the water stains, the pathetic patch job on the vent.

"But you... you're worse," she continued. "You're complicit. You saw the listing. You saw the changes. And you did nothing. You just... lived here. Like nothing happened."

"I didn't know!" I shouted. "I didn't know about Maya!"

"Ignorance isn't an excuse, Thea. It's a choice."

She walked toward me, the gun steady.

"Gary thinks this is about money," she said. "He thinks I'm going to sell the house and pay off his debt. He thinks we're partners."

She laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the concrete walls.

"He's wrong. I'm not going to sell the house."

"Then why the staging?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Why the nursery?"

"Because Maya always wanted a nursery," Elowen said softly. "She wanted a baby. She wanted a family. She wanted a life."

She stopped a few feet away from me. The flashlight beam was blinding.

"I'm giving her the house she deserved. Perfect. Clean. Empty."

"Empty?"

"Empty of him," she said. "Empty of Gary. And empty of you."

She raised the gun higher.

"I'm going to burn it down, Thea. With both of you inside."

My breath caught in my throat.

"You're crazy," I whispered.

"I'm efficient," she corrected. "Just like Sarah Miller."

She knew. She knew that I knew.

"You burned down your last house," I said. "With your husband inside."

Elowen smiled. "He was messy too."

She reached into her pocket with her gun hand—a mistake—and pulled out a lighter.

"It's going to be an accident," she said. "Another tragic accident. Faulty wiring in the garage. The fire spreads to the house. The tenants are trapped in the basement. So sad."

She flicked the lighter. The flame danced, small and yellow in the dark.

"Gary is already upstairs," she said. "He thinks we're negotiating. He thinks I'm going to write him a check."

She laughed again.

"I'm going to write him a eulogy."

I looked at the gun. I looked at the lighter. I looked at the stairs.

I had one chance.

"You missed a spot," I said.

Elowen frowned. "What?"

"In the nursery," I said. "On the wall. Above the crib."

She hesitated. "What are you talking about?"

"I wrote something," I lied. "In red paint. *She never woke up.*"

Elowen's face twisted. "You... you vandalized my nursery?"

"It's not your nursery," I said. "It's Maya's. And she hates it."

Elowen screamed. It was a primal sound, raw and filled with pain.

"Don't you say her name!"

She lunged at me.

I ducked. The gun went off—a deafening *crack* that made my ears ring. The bullet hit the water heater with a metallic *ping*.

I tackled her.

We hit the concrete floor hard. The flashlight skittered away, spinning wildly, casting dizzying shadows on the walls. The gun slid across the floor, disappearing into the darkness.

But she still had the lighter.

She clawed at my face, her nails digging into my skin. She was strong. Stronger than she looked.

"You ruined it!" she shrieked. "You ruined everything!"

I grabbed her wrist, trying to twist the lighter out of her hand. The flame was still lit, dancing dangerously close to my face.

"Let go!" I grunted.

"Burn!" she screamed. "Burn with the rest of the trash!"

She brought the lighter down.

I jerked my head back. The flame singed my hair.

I kneed her in the stomach.

She gasped, doubling over. I rolled away, scrambling to my feet.

I looked for the gun. I couldn't see it.

I looked for the stairs.

But Elowen was already up. She was blocking the way.

She was panting, her hair wild, her eyes burning with madness.

"You're not leaving," she said.

She held up the lighter.

And then she threw it.

Not at me.

At the pile of old newspapers stacked against the wall.

The paper caught instantly. The flames licked up the wall, feeding on the dry, brittle pages.

"No!" I screamed.

"Yes!" Elowen shouted. "Cleanse it! Cleanse it all!"

The fire spread fast. It jumped to a stack of cardboard boxes. Then to the old curtains hanging over the small basement window.

Smoke began to fill the room. Thick, black smoke.

"You're going to die too!" I yelled.

"I'm already dead," she whispered.

She turned and walked toward the fire. She stood there, watching it grow, her face illuminated by the orange glow.

She looked peaceful.

I ran for the stairs. The heat was already intense. I could feel it on my back.

I reached the bottom step.

"Thea!"

A voice from above.

I looked up.

Gary was standing at the top of the stairs. He was holding a gun.

My gun? No. He had his own.

"What did you do?" he screamed. "What did you do to my house?"

"She set it on fire!" I yelled, pointing at Elowen. "Run, Gary! Run!"

Gary looked past me, into the basement. He saw the flames. He saw Elowen, standing in the inferno like a martyr.

He didn't run.

He raised the gun.

He aimed it at me.

"You," he said. "You did this. You and your boyfriend."

"Gary, don't!"

"I need the money, Thea," he said, his voice shaking. "I need the insurance money. And if you're alive... I don't get it."

He cocked the hammer.

*Click.*

I froze.

Behind me, the fire roared. In front of me, a gun.

I was trapped.

But then, a shadow moved behind Gary.

A hand reached out from the hallway.

It held a cast-iron skillet.

*Clang.*

The skillet connected with the back of Gary's head. He crumpled, falling down the stairs.

He landed at my feet, unconscious. The gun skittered away.

I looked up.

Marcus was standing in the doorway. He was panting, soot smeared across his face.

"Did I do it right?" he asked.

"You're late," I said, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat.

"Better late than dead," he said. He reached out a hand. "Come on, Thea. We have to go."

I grabbed his hand. He pulled me up the stairs.

We ran into the kitchen. Smoke was pouring up from the basement door.

"The garage is on fire too," Marcus said. "I... I might have used too much accelerant."

"You think?"

We ran for the front door. Locked.

We ran for the back door. Locked.

"The window!" I shouted. "The nursery window!"

We ran upstairs. The hallway was filling with smoke. The fire alarm was screaming.

We burst into the nursery.

It was empty. The mannequin was gone. The tablet was gone.

But the window was open.

And the bars were gone.

"How?" Marcus asked.

"Jordana," I said. "She must have..."

I ran to the window and looked out.

Jordana was down there. She was standing next to her car, holding a crowbar. She waved.

"Jump!" she yelled.

I climbed onto the sill. Marcus was right behind me.

I looked back one last time.

The door to the nursery was open.

And standing in the hallway, surrounded by smoke and flames, was a figure.

It wasn't Elowen. It wasn't Gary.

It was a girl.

She was wearing a grey sweatshirt. She looked sad.

She raised a hand and waved.

Then she turned and walked into the fire.

"Maya," I whispered.

"Thea, go!" Marcus shoved me.

I jumped.

I hit the bushes hard. Marcus landed next to me.

We scrambled to our feet and ran to Jordana's car.

"Get in!" she shouted.

We piled in. She floored it.

As we sped away, I looked back at the house.

It was a torch. Flames were shooting out of the roof. The windows were blowing out.

It was beautiful. And terrifying.

"Did you see her?" I asked.

"See who?" Marcus asked.

"Elowen," I said. "She was in the basement."

"No," Jordana said. "She wasn't."

"I saw her! She set the fire!"

"Thea," Jordana said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. "Look at the roof."

I looked.

Standing on the peak of the roof, silhouetted against the moon and the fire, was a figure.

Elowen Vance.

She wasn't burning. She wasn't dying.

She was watching.

And she was holding something.

A small, metal box.

The box from the basement. The one with the evidence.

She raised it in the air, like a trophy.

And then she laughed.

A high, thin sound that cut through the sirens.

She had won.

She had the evidence. She had the house. And she had erased us.

"No," I whispered.

"She didn't get everything," Marcus said.

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a phone.

A pink iPhone with a cracked screen.

Maya's phone.

"I swiped it," he said. "From Gary's pocket when he fell."

I stared at it.

"It's locked," I said.

"Not anymore," Marcus said. He turned the phone over.

Taped to the back was a piece of paper.

A sticky note.

Written in Gary's handwriting.

*Passcode: 1022.*

October 22nd.

The date of the open house.

The date he was supposed to get paid.

I took the phone. My hands were shaking.

I typed in the code.

*1-0-2-2.*

The screen unlocked.

I opened the photos app.

I scrolled to the bottom. To the last photo taken.

It wasn't a photo of the house. It wasn't a photo of Elowen.

It was a selfie.

Maya.

She was smiling. But her eyes were terrified.

And behind her, in the reflection of a mirror, was a man.

Gary.

And he was holding a wrench.

And he was fixing the heater.

Or so it looked.

But when I zoomed in, I saw what he was really doing.

He was disconnecting the vent.

It wasn't an accident.

It was murder.

And we had the proof.