Paramedics in the Hall

Sirens screamed outside, a cacophony that drowned out the pounding in Elena’s skull. The house was no longer a home or a prison. It was a crime scene.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. "Clear!" a voice shouted. "Second floor clear!"

Elena sagged against the cool metal of the duct, her phone buzzing relentlessly against her thigh. Two mothers. Two women with the same face. One broken in a hospital bed, one stealing a plane with her aunt.

The door to the furnace room burst open.

"Police! Show your hands!"

Elena scrambled out of the crawlspace, raising her soot-stained hands. A beam of light blinded her.

"Don't shoot!" she gasped. "I'm Elena Vance. I live here."

"Secure her," a voice ordered.

Rough hands grabbed her wrists, spinning her around. The cold bite of handcuffs snapped shut.

"You're under arrest for arson and endangerment," an officer said, reciting the words like a bored script.

"Arson?" Elena choked out. "My brother started the fire! My sister killed my father!"

"Save it for the station, ma'am."

They dragged her up the basement stairs, past the kitchen where she had cooked a thousand meals, through the foyer where Arthur’s portrait still hung, untouched by the flames.

Outside, the lawn was a chaotic sea of red and blue lights. Fire trucks sprayed arcs of water onto the roof, steaming against the rain.

A gurney was being wheeled out the front door.

Elena stopped, digging her heels into the mud. "Is that him? Is that Arthur?"

The paramedic didn't answer. But as the gurney passed, the sheet slipped.

Arthur’s face was gray, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.

Dead.

But his eyes were open. And they were staring right at her.

A cold triumph lingered in that dead gaze. He had won. He had died before he could be punished, leaving behind a legacy of ash and confusion.

"Move it," the officer shoved her toward a cruiser.

Near the ambulance, Julian stood wrapped in a shock blanket, talking to a detective. He saw Elena. He didn't look guilty. He looked relieved.

He pointed a shaking finger at her. "That's her. She was obsessed with the letters. She said she’d burn it all down before she let us sell it."

The lie was already taking root.

Elena was shoved into the back of the police car. The door slammed, sealing her in a cage of wire and plexiglass.

She looked out the window. The house was burning, but the fire was contained to the west wing. The Trophy Room. The evidence was gone.

She was alone. Marcus was missing. Her mother—which mother?—was gone. And she was being driven away in handcuffs.

She leaned her head against the window, defeat washing over her.

But then she felt it.

The hard lump in her coat pocket.

The police had patted her down for weapons. They hadn't checked the deep, inner pocket of her trench coat.

She shifted her weight, maneuvering her handcuffed hands. Her fingers brushed the cold ceramic of the coffee mug.

No. Not the mug. She had left the mug in the bedroom.

She felt something else. Something she had grabbed instinctively in the basement tunnel when she saw the woman in the bed.

A small, plastic bracelet. A hospital ID band.

It had been on the floor next to the bed.

She pulled it out, shielding it from the rearview mirror.

In the flash of a passing streetlamp, she read the name typed on the plastic strip.

*Patient: Claire Vance.*
*DOB: 04/22/1955*
*Status: Involuntary Hold.*

Elena stared at the band.

If the woman in the tunnel was Claire...

Then the woman driving the car with Meredith...

Wasn't Claire.

The car turned a corner, leaving the burning estate behind. But Elena didn't look back.

She looked at the bracelet.

The woman in the car knew about the ledger. She knew about the trophy room. She knew how to drive a getaway car.

She wasn't Aunt Claire.

She was the third sister.