Evidence of Instability

Julian poured the coffee onto the floor. The thick, brown liquid splattered against the baseboards, taking the last hope of a quick resolution with it. He dropped the empty mug onto the duvet, his expression one of utter disdain.

"You really are his daughter," he repeated. "Always hiding things. Always playing games."

He turned on his heel and walked out, his cashmere coat swishing silently. "Lock the door, Patricia."

The attorney gave Elena one last, unreadable look—not sympathy, but perhaps calculation—before she followed him into the hall. The heavy oak door slammed shut. The lock engaged with a decisive *thud-click* that echoed in the sudden silence of the room.

Elena scrambled off the bed, her boots slipping on the slick hardwood. She threw herself against the door, rattling the handle. "Julian! You can't do this!"

Silence. Then, the sound of retreating footsteps, fading down the corridor.

"Let me out!" she screamed, pounding the wood with her fists until they throbbed.

She ran to the window. The steel security shutters were down, blocking the view of the rain-soaked garden. She rattled the bars, but they were immovable, bolted deep into the brickwork.

Trapped.

She leaned her forehead against the cold metal, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Julian was going to the Kingsman Club. He was going to empty the box. He was going to destroy the evidence, the money, the truth.

And he was going to pin the fire on her.

She looked around the room, her eyes darting frantically. The bed was a mess of scattered letters. The lamp lay in pieces on the floor, a bronze skeleton of its former self.

The lamp base.

Elena picked up the heavy bronze stem. It was solid, weighty. A weapon? No. A tool.

She scanned the room for a weak point. The door was solid oak. The shutters were steel. The walls were plaster over brick.

But the house was old. Victorian. It breathed. It had veins.

She dropped to her knees near the window seat. Below the cushioned bench, set into the baseboard, was an ornate, cast-iron ventilation grate.

It was painted over, layers of cream and white sealing it shut. But it was there.

Elena jammed the flat edge of the bronze stem into the slot of the top screw. She twisted.

Nothing.

She put her weight behind it, gritting her teeth. "Come on."

The paint cracked. A flake of white fell onto the carpet. The screw turned, screeching in protest.

She worked quickly, sweat prickling on her forehead. One screw. Then the second. The bottom two were rusted tight, refusing to budge.

She wedged the bronze bar behind the grate and pulled.

The metal groaned. The wood of the baseboard splintered.

With a final, wrenching *crack*, the grate popped free, screws and all.

A blast of cold, stale air hit her face.

Elena shone her phone light into the opening. It was dark, dusty, and narrow. An old cold-air return, wide enough for a person—if that person wasn't claustrophobic.

She didn't have the luxury of phobias.

This duct led down to the basement. To the furnace room.

And from the furnace room, there was a door to the tunnels.

The same tunnels Arthur had used to move his illicit cargo.

Elena shoved her phone into her pocket. She took a deep breath of the room's warm air, knowing it would be the last for a while.

She squeezed her shoulders into the opening. The metal edges scraped her coat. The dust coated her tongue, dry and ancient.

She crawled forward, dragging her body into the dark throat of the house.

It was tight. Terrifyingly tight. The darkness pressed against her eyelids.

She could hear the muffled sound of a car engine starting outside. The roar of a high-performance vehicle.

Julian's Porsche.

He was leaving. He was going to the club.

If he got to the box first, he would destroy the evidence. The tape. The ledger. The key to the Cayman accounts.

Everything her mother had suffered for. Everything Elena had lost.

She pulled herself forward, inch by inch, scraping her elbows and knees.

She wasn't running away.

She was going to cut him off.

The duct sloped downward sharply. She slid, uncontrolled, for a terrifying second before her boots caught a seam in the metal.

She stopped, her heart hammering against the tin floor.

Below her, through a vent in the ductwork, she saw a flicker of light.

And then she heard a sound. Not a car engine. Not the rain.

A voice.

"You think this is over?"

It was Arthur's voice. Weak. Rattling. But distinct.

Elena froze. The vent looked down into the master bedroom.

Arthur wasn't in the hospital.

He was still here.

And he wasn't alone.

"I think it's just beginning," another voice answered.

Elena pressed her eye to the slats of the vent.

Standing over Arthur's bed, holding a pillow with both hands, was Sarah.