The Live Feed

I slowly backed away from the green nylon bundle, my boots making hollow, rhythmic thuds on the dirt floor of the void. Arthur was still in his judicial robes, a towering silhouette of absolute authority framed by the jagged hole I’d torn in the master closet. Harrison stood beside him, the glass barrel of the syringe trembling in his hand—the same hand that had meticulously titrated my childhood out of existence.

"Don't move, Eleanor," Harrison whispered, his clinical mask finally disintegrating. He looked at Arthur, his eyes wide with a frantic, silent calculation. "She’s hyper-stimulated. We have to administer the sedative before the cardiac load becomes critical."

"The only thing critical here is your arrogance, Harry," I said, my voice gaining a terrifying, melodic calm. I reached the far corner of the narrow space, my shoulder hitting the original 1920s brickwork. "You didn't just suppress a memory. You built a tomb and made me the primary seal. You turned your own sister into a load-bearing wall for your crimes."

Arthur stepped into the void, his robes whispering against the drop cloths like a dry, predatory breath. "That’s enough, El. You’re playing a game you don't understand. The police are downstairs for your wellness check. In five minutes, this will all be a tragic, quiet footnote in the Vance history. You’ll be in a private wing, and this... this structural mistake... will be repaired."

"It's already a headline, Arthur."

Harrison lunged. It wasn't a doctor's movement; it was a desperate, panicked tackle. He aimed for my arm, the needle glinting in the dim blue moonlight. I twisted away, my architect’s knowledge of the narrow floor joists allowing me to pivot where he stumbled.

I held up my phone, the screen facing them.

The display was divided into four crystal-clear quadrants. One showed the rocks inside the bag. One showed the silver compass. The third quadrant showed a wide-angle view of the master suite. But the fourth was the kill shot: a live-chat interface with a ticker of active viewers and an uplink status that glowed a vibrant, neon green.

"Say hi to Julian, Arthur. And the police."

I watched the color drain from Arthur's face as he saw the words *Streaming Live to State Police Server* at the top of the interface. The confession he’d just issued—the admission that he hit Tommy Finch to protect his grades, that Harrison had drugged me to cover it up—it wasn't just in the room. It was already part of the record.

"It’s not just a wellness check anymore," I whispered, the distant sirens suddenly becoming a deafening roar at the end of the driveway. "It’s a recovery."

'Say hi to Julian, Arthur. And the police.'