Covering Tracks

The metal teeth of the zipper caught the light, mocking me from the darkness. A sleeping bag. Hidden behind a false wall, secured with industrial screws, intentionally omitted from the blueprints.

My breath hitched, the sound loud and jagged in the silent closet. The air in the void wasn't just stale; it was preserved. A tomb.

I snapped the flashlight off. The darkness rushed back in, but the afterimage of that zipper burned behind my eyelids.

I grabbed a small tub of wood putty from the tool bag. My fingers dug into the soft clay, pressing it into the quarter-inch hole until it was flush with the cedar paneling. I used a scrap of sandpaper to rough up the surface, blending it perfectly with the grain. If Arthur came back to inspect the baseboards, he wouldn’t find a thing.

The physical act of covering the hole grounded me. It was a tangible problem with a tangible solution. Spackle, sand, conceal.

I carried the tool bag down to the basement, placing it exactly where it belonged on the workbench. The hum of the boiler vibrated through the concrete floor.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, swiping the screen.

*Harrison.* *Your heart rate just spiked to 120. Are you experiencing a panic attack? Did you take the medication?*

My thumb hovered over the screen. He was watching the biometric feed from the smartwatch he insisted I wear. The watch I put on every morning without questioning.

I stared at the black band around my wrist. It wasn't a gift. It was a tracking collar.

I typed a reply, forcing my thumb to move steadily across the keyboard.

*Just stubbed my toe on the basement stairs. Fine now. Took the pill with coffee.*

The three dots appeared instantly, indicating he was typing.

*Be careful, El. The house is old. You need to rest.*

The word *rest* tasted like a threat. The medication wasn't meant to calm me. It was meant to keep me compliant. To keep the memories buried.

If I stopped taking the pills, the memories would return. The flash of the sleeping bag being dragged down the hallway—that wasn't a hallucination. It was a repressed truth clawing its way to the surface.

But if I stopped taking them, Harrison would know. The watch would tell him. He would see the elevated heart rate, the erratic sleep patterns. He would use it as evidence to declare me unstable. Arthur would use that medical declaration to revoke my guardianship of Leo.

They had me perfectly boxed in. A blood obligation containment.

I unclasped the watch and set it on the workbench. The green sensor light blinked rapidly against the wood, searching for a pulse it could no longer find.

I needed to find Sarah. Harrison's ex-wife. She was the only one who had managed to escape the Vance family orbit. She had left Leo behind, but she had gotten out. Maybe she knew how to break the containment.

I walked back up to the kitchen. The house was quiet, but it didn't feel empty anymore. The presence of that hidden room pressed against the back of my mind.

I pulled out my laptop and opened a secure browser. I typed in *Sarah Vance*. The search results were a sea of social media profiles, none of them matching her face. She had completely scrubbed her digital footprint.

I narrowed the search, adding *Harrison Vance* and *divorce records*.

The court filings were sealed. Arthur's handiwork, no doubt.

I leaned back in the chair, staring at the blank screen. They controlled the narrative. They controlled the house. They controlled my blood chemistry.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Harrison.

*Watch disconnected. Please put it back on, El. We need to monitor those stress levels.*

I stared at the screen, the reality of my situation settling over me like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

He wasn't just her doctor. He was her warden.