The Pizza Box

The logo on the pizza box was like a fingerprint in the dust, a modern artifact in a room frozen in time. *Sal’s Pizza*. Iris stared at the image on her phone screen, her mind racing. The place had opened last spring. It was popular with the college kids.

It meant Elias hadn’t just been in the basement in 1990. He had been there *last week*.

He was there when Iris arrived to clean the house. He was there when she found the invoice. He was there, listening, while she and Julian argued in the library directly above his head.

And then, just before she drilled the hole, they moved him.

Why?

Because of the leak? No, the leak started tonight.

Because of the appraiser?

*The lady with the measuring tape.*

Elias had said it. He had seen a woman.

Iris thought back. She had hired a surveyor two weeks ago to mark the property lines for the listing. A woman. She had walked the perimeter of the house, measuring the foundation.

She must have gotten close to the vents. She might have heard something. Or seen something.

Julian couldn't take the risk. So he moved him.

But he didn't move him far. He moved him to the carriage house. The property that wasn't in the trust. The property Iris couldn't access.

Iris crawled out from under the table. Her legs were cramped, her body aching with exhaustion, but her mind was clear.

She had the *what*—imprisonment.
She had the *why*—the trust fund.
She had the *how*—the drugs, the fake passport, the soundproof room.

Now she needed the *who*.

She needed Elias.

She needed to get him to talk. To a lawyer. To a judge. To anyone who wasn't on Julian's payroll.

But first, she had to get out of this house.

She stood up. The silence was absolute. The storm had passed, leaving behind a heavy, dripping quiet.

She walked to the back door. Locked.

She walked to the front door. Locked.

She tried the windows. Painted shut or locked with new, keyed latches.

Julian hadn't just secured the house. He had sealed it.

He wasn't keeping people out. He was keeping her in.

Why?

Because he knew.

He knew she had been in the basement. He knew she had seen the door. He knew she had spoken to Arthur Pendelton.

He was done playing the benevolent uncle. Now, he was the cleaner.

Iris went to the kitchen. She opened the silverware drawer. It was empty.

She opened the knife block. Empty.

She checked the utility drawer where she kept the hammer and screwdrivers. Empty.

He had swept the house while she was at the pharmacy. He had removed anything she could use as a weapon or a tool.

She was trapped in a padded cell of her own making.

Panic clawed at her throat. She forced it down. Think. Think like him.

He wanted her contained. Why? To buy time? To arrange an accident?

*Maybe you should take a break. A permanent one.*

The gas.

She ran to the stove. She turned the knob.

Click. Click. Click.

No flame. No hiss. The gas was shut off at the main.

Okay. Not gas.

Fire?

She sniffed the air. No smoke.

Then she heard it.

A sound from above.

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps on the third floor.

In the attic.

Iris froze. Julian was supposed to be in the guest cottage.

But the footsteps were real. They were moving across the ceiling, directly above her head. Toward the chimney chase.

Toward the leak.

Iris looked up. The attic access panel was still open from when she had climbed up earlier.

She saw a light flicker in the opening.

Then, a hand appeared. It wasn't holding a flashlight. It wasn't holding a weapon.

It was holding a gas can.

A red plastic jerry can.

The hand tilted it.

Liquid glugged out, dark and pungent, pouring down through the open hatch, splashing onto the hallway floor below.

Gasoline.

The smell hit her instantly, sharp and dizzying.

Julian wasn't going to stage a suicide. He wasn't going to make it look like an accident.

He was going to burn the house down. With her inside.

The prisoner wasn't gone. He was just moved.