Sunday Morning

"The Plan," I whispered, the words barely audible over the thrum of the motel's wall-mounted AC unit. I sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, the layout of 104 Hydrangea Lane spread out before me on the bed like a battle map. It wasn't a blueprint. It was a Zillow listing printout, covered in red sharpie.

"We have to burn it down," I said, looking up at Jordana.

She stopped pacing. She looked at me, her face pale in the flickering light of the television. "Metaphorically, right? You mean destroy the sale."

"I mean destroy the stage," I clarified. "Elowen thinks she's directing a play. She thinks she's casting the perfect family for her perfect house. But she forgot one thing."

"What?" Marcus asked from the floor, where he was nursing a lukewarm cup of vending machine coffee.

"The audience," I said. "She needs an audience. She needs validation. That's why she films everything for TikTok. That's why she stages the open house like a premiere."

I pointed to the flyer Jordana had designed. *OPEN HOUSE: A MURDER MYSTERY.*

"We're not just going to tell them," I said. "We're going to show them. We're going to turn her open house into a crime scene reenactment."

Jordana sat down on the edge of the bed. "Okay. Walk me through it."

"Gary is out on bail," I said. "Which means he's desperate. He needs that fifty-five thousand dollars from the developer, or the loan shark breaks his legs. He'll be there, trying to keep everyone calm."

"And Elowen?"

"Elowen is out too," I said. "Her lawyer probably argued she's a grieving mother who had a breakdown. She'll be there because she thinks she owns the place. She thinks she's the victim."

I traced a line on the map. "The open house starts at 1 PM. We get there at 12:45. We park down the street. We wait until the first wave of buyers goes inside."

"Then what?" Marcus asked.

"Then we make an entrance," I said.

I reached into the bag of supplies we had bought at Walmart. I pulled out a can of red paint. A gallon of it. Behr Premium Plus. The exact brand Elowen used, but in 'Candy Apple Red' instead of 'Swiss Coffee'.

"I'm going to paint the nursery," I said. "But not the walls."

Jordana's eyes widened. "The carpet."

"The carpet. The crib. The white rocking chair she loves so much. I'm going to make it look like a slaughterhouse."

"That's... intense," Marcus muttered.

"It's necessary," I said. "We need shock value. We need the buyers to run screaming. We need the police to come back. Real police, this time. Not the ones Gary paid off."

"And the evidence?" Jordana asked. "The diary? The locket?"

"We bring it all," I said. "We bring Maya's phone. We stream the video of her confession to every device in the house. Smart TVs. Alexas. Whatever is connected to the Wi-Fi."

"How?" Marcus asked. "We don't have the password."

"I do," I said. "It's on the router in the basement. I memorized it when I was down there."

*Password: Maya1022.*

October 22nd. The date she died.

A chill ran through the room.

"Okay," Jordana said, her voice steady. "But there's one problem. The developer."

"What about them?"

"They don't care about the house," Jordana said. "They care about the land. They're going to bulldoze it anyway. A little red paint won't stop them."

"No," I said. "But a body will."

"Thea," Marcus said warningly. "We don't have a body."

"We have the next best thing," I said.

I reached into my bag again. I pulled out the doll.

The porcelain doll I had sold on eBay. The one that had been returned. The one with the cracked face.

"We bury it," I said. "In the garden. Under the hydrangeas. Where Elowen said Maya was."

"And then?"

"And then we dig it up," I said. "In front of everyone."

Jordana stared at me. "You want to stage a fake exhumation?"

"It won't look fake," I said. "Not from a distance. Not with the paint. Not with the panic."

"It's risky," Marcus said. "If they catch us digging..."

"They won't," I said. "Because they'll be watching the show inside."

I looked at the clock. It was 3 AM.

"We have ten hours," I said. "Let's get to work."

We spent the rest of the night prepping. We filled water balloons with red paint. We printed flyers. We charged Maya's phone.

By dawn, the room looked like a war room.

I stood by the window, watching the sun come up over the highway. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with rain that refused to fall.

"You really think this will work?" Marcus asked, coming up beside me.

"It has to," I said.

He touched my arm. "Thea, about the fire..."

"Don't," I said, pulling away. "Not now."

"I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. I really am."

I looked at him. He looked tired. Broken. The 'benevolent gaslighter' was gone, replaced by a man who realized he was just a side character in someone else's tragedy.

"Prove it," I said. "Help me bury the doll."

We drove to Hydrangea Lane separately. Jordana took her car. Marcus and I took his Civic.

We parked a block away, near the Greenbelt entrance.

It was 6 AM. The neighborhood was quiet. The streetlights were just flickering off.

We crept through the woods, carrying the shovel and the doll. The air smelled of wet earth and pine needles. It reminded me of the night I had met Elowen in the basement.

We reached the edge of the yard. The house loomed above us, dark and silent. The windows were new, the siding replaced. It looked perfect.

Too perfect.

"Hurry," I whispered.

We crawled to the hydrangea bush. The soil was loose, freshly mulched. Elowen had been gardening.

We dug. It was easy work. The ground was soft.

We placed the doll in the hole. I arranged its limbs, making it look... human. I poured a little red paint over the white dress.

"God," Marcus whispered. "That looks real."

"That's the point," I said.

We covered it up. Smooth the mulch.

We ran back to the woods.

We waited.

At 9 AM, Elowen arrived.

She looked impeccable. White pantsuit. Pearls. Not a hair out of place.

She walked around the yard, inspecting the flowers. She stopped at the hydrangea bush. She frowned. She leaned down and brushed a speck of dirt off a leaf.

She didn't see the fresh earth. She didn't see the grave.

She went inside.

At 10 AM, Gary arrived. He looked hungover. He was sweating, even in the morning chill. He argued with Elowen on the porch. I couldn't hear the words, but the body language was clear. He was panicking. She was controlling.

At 11 AM, the caterers arrived. They brought trays of hors d'oeuvres. Champagne.

"Champagne," I muttered. "For a funeral."

At 12 PM, the first buyers started to trickle in. The developer's team. Men in suits with clipboards.

And then, a text from Jordana.

*I'm in position. The Wi-Fi is strong.*

*Good,* I typed back. *Wait for my signal.*

I looked at Marcus. "You ready?"

He nodded. He pulled a ski mask over his face.

"I'm going to the garage," he said. "I'll cut the power when you give the word."

"Be careful," I said.

"You too."

He ran off toward the back of the house.

I took a deep breath. I smoothed my vintage dress. I put on my sunglasses.

I walked out of the woods and onto the sidewalk.

I joined the line of people waiting to get in.

"The Arrival," I whispered to myself.

I walked up the driveway. The gravel crunched under my heels.

Gary was at the door. He saw me. His eyes went wide.

"You," he hissed.

"Me," I said, smiling. "I'm back for the encore."

I pushed past him.

I walked into the foyer.

The smell of "Clean Linen" hit me like a physical blow. It was suffocating.

Elowen was in the living room. She was holding a glass of champagne. She was laughing.

"And here," she said, gesturing to the fireplace, "is where we envision the family gathering."

"Or where you burned the evidence," I said loudly.

The room went silent.

Elowen turned. Her smile didn't waver.

"Thea," she said. "I'm so glad you could make it. We were just talking about the... renovations."

"Renovations?" I laughed. "Is that what you call a cover-up?"

I reached into my bag. I pulled out the can of paint.

"I think you missed a spot," I said.

I popped the lid.

"No!" Gary shouted, running toward me.

I threw the paint.

It wasn't a splash. It was a wave. A red, visceral arc that coated the beige rug, the white sofa, the glass coffee table.

The crowd gasped.

"Murderer!" I screamed, pointing at Elowen.

"She killed her daughter! She killed Maya!"

Elowen stood there, a few drops of red paint on her white suit. She looked at the stain. She touched it.

Then she looked at me.

And her eyes... her eyes were empty.

"Maya isn't dead," she whispered. "She's sleeping."

"She's dead!" I shouted. "And she's in the garden!"

I pulled out the megaphone.

"Jordana! Now!"

The TV screen above the fireplace flickered. The slideshow of "lifestyle" photos disappeared.

In its place was the video.

Maya's face. Terrified.

*My name is Maya Bishop...*

The audio boomed through the house.

*Gary knows. He bribed the inspector...*

The buyers were filming. The developer's team was backing away.

"Turn it off!" Gary screamed. He ran to the TV, trying to find the remote.

"It's too late, Gary," I said. "The cloud is forever."

I ran to the back door. I threw it open.

"Look!" I yelled, pointing at the garden.

"Look what she planted!"

I ran to the hydrangea bush. I fell to my knees. I started digging with my hands.

The crowd followed me. They stood on the porch, watching.

I hit the doll. I pulled it out.

It was covered in dirt. And red paint.

"Oh my god," someone screamed.

"It's a body!"

Elowen walked out onto the porch. She saw the doll.

She screamed.

It wasn't a scream of anger. It was a scream of recognition.

"Sarah!" she wailed. "Sarah!"

She ran down the steps. She grabbed the doll from me. She cradled it, rocking back and forth.

"I told you to sleep," she whispered to the porcelain face. "Why didn't you sleep?"

The sirens started.

Real sirens.

I stood up. I looked at the house.

The lights flickered.

And then they went out.

Marcus had cut the power.

But the video was still playing on the TV. It was running on battery backup.

Maya's face glowing in the dark living room.

*...she keeps talking about a reunion...*

I looked at the crowd. They were terrified. They were witnessing a ghost story come to life.

And then I saw him.

Standing at the edge of the crowd.

A man in a suit.

But he wasn't a buyer.

He was Detective Hatcher.

And he wasn't alone.

He was with a woman. A woman in a grey suit.

The new detective. Miller.

They weren't looking at Elowen. They weren't looking at the doll.

They were looking at me.

And Miller was holding something.

A pair of handcuffs.

I froze.

"Thea Minter," she said, her voice cutting through the chaos. "You're under arrest."

"For what?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"For the murder of Maya Bishop," she said.

I stared at her. "What?"

"We found the body," Hatcher said, stepping forward. "In the river. Just like you said."

"Then you know it wasn't me!"

"We found her phone," Miller said. "In your car."

My car. The one that was impounded.

"And we found your fingerprints," she continued. "On the gas valve."

I looked at my hands. The paint. The dirt.

"I didn't do it," I whispered.

"Save it for the judge," Miller said.

She walked toward me.

I looked at Jordana. She was standing by her car, her face pale. She couldn't help me. Not now.

I looked at Marcus. He was gone.

I looked at Elowen. She was still rocking the doll, oblivious to the world.

I was trapped.

But then, my phone buzzed.

A text.

Unknown number.

*Run, Thea. The back gate is open.*

I looked at the text.

It wasn't from Marcus. It wasn't from Jordana.

It was from *El_Elevates.*

I looked at Elowen. She wasn't looking at her phone. She was looking at the doll.

Then who sent it?

I didn't wait to find out.

I turned and ran.

Into the Greenbelt. Into the dark.

And this time, I didn't look back.