Climbing Up

The vent was small, a rectangular grate painted the same cream color as the baseboard. Iris pressed her face against it, but the slats were angled down, blocking her view of the loft. She could only hear the faint, muffled sounds of movement above.

"Can you open it?" Marcus whispered, kneeling beside her.

Iris felt the screws. Phillips head. Painted over.

"I need a tool," she said.

Marcus pulled a multitool from his pocket. He scraped the paint out of the screw heads, his movements quick and precise.

One screw. Two.

The grate came loose.

Iris pulled it away. Behind it was a dark, dusty space between the studs. Not a crawlspace, just a hollow void for ductwork and wiring.

But there was no duct here. Just a chase that went straight up.

"It goes to the attic," she whispered. "To the loft."

She looked at Marcus. "I can fit. You can't."

Marcus looked at the narrow opening. It was barely fourteen inches wide. "Iris, your ankle..."

"It's adrenaline," she lied, though the pain was a constant, grinding nausea. "Boost me."

He helped her into the opening. She squeezed her shoulders through, the rough wood scraping her skin. It was tight, claustrophobic, smelling of old insulation and dead mice.

She found a foothold on a cross-brace and pulled herself up.

It was a vertical crawl, a chimney climb in the dark. She wedged her back against one stud and her feet against the other, inching upward. Every movement sent a fresh spike of agony through her leg, but she bit down on her lip and kept going.

She could hear them now. Voices. Clearer.

"Please," Sabrina was saying. "Please don't."

"Be quiet," a man's voice. Rough. Impatient. "Mr. Vance said to wait."

"He's not coming," Elias said. His voice was calm, almost dreamy. "He's busy."

"Shut up, freak."

Iris reached the top of the chase. There was no grate here, just an open gap where the floorboards of the loft stopped short of the wall.

She pulled herself up, peering over the edge.

The loft was a large, open space under the eaves. It was cluttered with old furniture, trunks, and covered paintings. The only light came from a single bulb hanging from a rafter.

In the center of the room, Sabrina was sitting on an old steamer trunk, her hands zip-tied behind her back. She was crying silently.

Elias was sitting on the floor nearby, his legs crossed. He wasn't bound. He was just... waiting.

And pacing between them was the guard. The man with the trident tattoo. He had a gun in his hand, a heavy, black pistol.

He walked to the window, peering out at the driveway. "Where the hell is he?"

He turned his back to the room.

Iris didn't have a weapon. She didn't have a plan. She just had the element of surprise and a heavy, cast-iron bookend she had spotted on a shelf within reach.

She pulled herself out of the hole, moving as silently as a shadow. Her ankle buckled as her weight came down on it, but she caught herself on a stack of books.

The guard stiffened. He heard it.

He started to turn.

Iris grabbed the bookend—a heavy bronze lion—and threw it.

It wasn't a good throw. It missed his head.

But it hit his hand.

The gun clattered to the floor, sliding across the dusty boards.

The guard roared in pain, clutching his fingers. He looked at Iris, his eyes wide with shock.

"You," he snarled.

He lunged for her.

Iris tried to dodge, but her leg wouldn't cooperate. She fell, crashing into a pile of old curtains.

The guard was on her in a second. He grabbed her throat, his thumbs digging into her windpipe.

"You should have stayed in the hospital," he grunted, squeezing.

Black spots danced in Iris's vision. She clawed at his hands, but his grip was iron.

Then, a blur of motion.

Elias.

He didn't hit the guard. He didn't tackle him.

He picked up the gun.

The guard froze. He looked up.

Elias was standing over them, holding the pistol with both hands. He wasn't shaking. He wasn't scared.

He looked at the guard. Then he looked at Iris.

"Get off her," he said.

The guard slowly released Iris's throat. He raised his hands. "Okay. Okay, buddy. Just calm down."

"I am calm," Elias said. "I've been calm for thirty years."

He gestured with the gun. "Move. Over there. By the window."

The guard moved, backing away slowly.

Iris gasped for air, massaging her throat. She looked at Elias. He stood in the center of the room, a strange, regal figure in his sweatpants and t-shirt. The gun looked enormous in his hands, but he held it steadily.

He looked at her.

"You're the girl from the garden," he said softly. "The one with the drone."