The Safe House

The Carriage House loomed ahead, a block of deeper darkness against the night sky. The downstairs windows were black, but a single yellow rectangle burned on the second floor. Iris crouched in the rhododendrons, her ankle throbbing a dull, sick rhythm that matched the beat of her heart.

She watched the window.

The silhouette passed again. Pacing. Back and forth.

One, two, three steps. Turn. One, two, three steps. Turn.

It was the same pattern. The same confined, repetitive motion she had seen on the thermal camera in the basement. He wasn't just walking. He was measuring the limits of a cage that no longer existed, his body remembering walls that weren't there.

It was Elias.

He was alive.

Iris let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. He hadn't been burned. He hadn't been killed. He had been moved, just like the pizza box suggested.

But for how long?

Behind her, in the woods, a branch snapped. Loud. Deliberate.

She spun around. The trees were a wall of shadows, but she could feel him there. Julian. He wasn't running. He was taking his time, confident in his trap.

He knew she would come here. Where else could she go?

She turned back to the house. The front door was solid oak, heavy and foreboding. But around the side, near the old stables, there was a service entrance.

She crawled through the bushes, the wet leaves soaking her knees. She reached the side of the building and pressed herself against the stone foundation.

She tried the handle. Locked.

Of course.

She looked up. There was a window above the door. Small. High. But the latch was rusted.

She found a loose stone in the garden bed. She climbed onto a rain barrel, her ankle screaming in protest. She jammed the stone into the gap between the sash and the frame. She pushed.

The wood groaned. Paint flaked.

*Crack.*

The window slid up an inch.

She pushed harder. It opened enough for her to squeeze through.

She tumbled into the dark hallway, landing on a pile of drop cloths. The air inside smelled of dust and fresh paint. Renovation. Julian was preparing the property for sale. Erasing the past to cash in on the future.

She stood up, listening. The house was silent.

She crept toward the stairs. The wood was old, settling under her weight. She kept close to the wall, where the risers were strongest.

She reached the landing. The light from the bedroom spilled into the hall, a sharp, yellow blade.

She moved toward it.

The pacing had stopped.

She reached the doorframe and peered inside.

The room was sparse. A bed. A chair. A table with a lamp.

And standing in the center of the rug, facing the window, was a man.

He was wearing gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. His hair was long, streaked with gray, tied back with a rubber band.

He turned slowly.

His face was gaunt, his eyes hollowed by decades of artificial light. But they were the same eyes from the photograph in the attic. The same eyes she had seen in her own mirror every morning.

He looked at her. He didn't speak. He didn't seem surprised.

He just raised his hand and pointed a trembling finger at the floor.

He walked three steps, turned, walked three steps. The exact dimensions of the room in the wall.