The Echo

The front door clicked shut, the sound carrying through the empty house like a warning shot. Iris shoved the envelope under her sweater, the stiff paper cold against her skin. She had stolen the evidence, but she hadn't escaped the crime scene.

Julian’s footsteps echoed in the hallway. He wasn't whistling anymore. His pace was brisk, purposeful. He was coming to the library.

Iris scrambled to her feet. The safe door was still wide open, a gaping mouth of accusation. She slammed it shut and spun the dial, praying the metallic *clack* was muffled by the thudding of her own heart.

She grabbed a book from the nearest shelf—*The History of the Roman Empire*, volume four—and sat in the wingback chair just as the library door swung open.

"Iris?" Julian stood in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hallway sconces. He was still wearing his suit, but he had taken off the jacket, his white shirt glowing in the gloom. "I saw a light."

"I couldn't sleep," Iris said, her voice sounding thin and reedy. She opened the book to a random page. "I was looking for something to read."

Julian stepped into the room. He didn't look at her; he looked at the wall paneling where the safe was hidden. "Light reading for 2 AM. Most people prefer a novel."

"The novels are packed," she said. It was a weak lie, but it was all she had.

He walked toward her, his movements slow, deliberate. He stopped by the fireplace, resting a hand on the mantle. He was close enough that she could smell the scotch on his breath.

"You're restless, Iris. It's understandable. Grief, stress... financial pressure." He picked up a crystal decanter from the side table and poured himself a drink. "I worry about you. Truly."

"Do you?" Iris closed the book. Her arms were crossed over her chest, pressing the envelope tight against her ribs. She hoped he couldn't hear the crinkle of the paper.

"Of course. You're family." He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the glass. "Family protects family. That's the first rule, isn't it? We keep our own counsel. We keep our own secrets."

"Like the basement?" she asked. The words were out before she could stop them.

Julian smiled. It was a terrible, sad smile. "Like the basement. Like your mother's 'accidental' overdose. Like Elias's 'journey.' We tell the stories that allow us to survive, Iris. And we expect gratitude for the protection."

He set the glass down. "I checked the accounts today. I noticed you tried to make a transfer."

Iris went cold. "I needed to pay the appraiser."

"You need to pay for a lot of things. And I can help you. I want to help you." He stepped closer. "But I need to know that we're on the same page. That you understand the cost of... disruption."

He reached out and touched the book in her lap. His hand was heavy. "This house is sold. The money goes into the trust. The trust takes care of Cordelia, and it takes care of you and Maya. That's the plan. That has always been the plan."

"And Elias?" she whispered.

"Elias is gone," Julian said, his voice flat. "He's been gone a long time. Don't go looking for ghosts, Iris. You might find things that are better left buried."

He patted her hand, his palm dry and warm. Then he turned and walked to the door.

"Go to bed. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

He left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Iris sat in the chair, unable to move. The envelope burned against her skin. She was stealing from the man who owned her mortgage.