Footsteps

"I know I heard something."

Arthur's voice was muffled by the attic floorboards, but the menace was crystal clear. Claire pressed her back against the rough wood of a wardrobe, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Aris was a dark shape beside her, frozen mid-crouch.

Below them, the trapdoor rattled.

"It's probably raccoons," another voice said. A younger man's voice. One of the thugs from the van. "Place this old is full of 'em."

"Raccoons don't open windows," Arthur snapped.

The trapdoor pushed upward, lifting an inch before hitting the heavy trunk Claire had shoved over it earlier. A beam of light sliced through the crack, sweeping across the dusty floorboards. It missed Claire’s foot by inches.

"It's blocked," the man said.

"Then unblock it," Arthur ordered. "Put your shoulder into it."

The trunk groaned. It was heavy, filled with old linens, but it wasn't bolted down. It slid an inch. Then another.

Claire looked at Aris. His eyes were wide, white rims visible in the gloom. He pointed to the dormer window.

*Go.*

He mouthed the word.

Claire shook her head. The drop was too high. The police were already swarming the grounds; she could see the blue and red lights flashing against the trees outside. If they went out the window, they would be spotted instantly.

She pointed to the far end of the attic. To the shadows behind the water tank. There was a small access panel there, leading into the eaves. A crawlspace.

Aris hesitated, then nodded.

They moved together, silent as ghosts. The trunk scraped loudly against the floor as the men below heaved against the trapdoor. The noise covered the sound of their footsteps.

They reached the access panel. It was painted shut, layers of white latex sealing the edges.

Claire dug her fingernails into the seam. Aris pulled a pocketknife from his belt and jammed it into the crack. He twisted. The paint cracked with a sharp *pop*.

"Did you hear that?" Arthur’s voice was sharper now. Closer.

The trapdoor slammed open. The trunk toppled over with a crash that shook the floor.

"Clear the room!" Arthur shouted. "Check everywhere!"

Claire and Aris squeezed into the crawlspace. It was tight, insulated with fiberglass that scratched at their skin. They pulled the panel shut just as heavy boots hit the attic floor.

Darkness enveloped them. The air was stale, thick with the smell of old wood and insulation. Claire clutched the notebook to her chest.

"I see footprints in the dust," Arthur said. He was close. Just on the other side of the thin plywood panel. "Two sets. She's not alone."

"Window's open, boss," the man called out.

Steps moved away from them, toward the dormer.

"They went onto the roof," Arthur said. "Get the lights on the perimeter. Tell the officers we have intruders. Armed and dangerous."

"Yes, sir."

Claire closed her eyes. *Armed and dangerous.* He was setting the stage for a shooting. If the police saw them running, if they saw something in Aris's hand...

"Wait," Arthur said.

The footsteps stopped.

"Why would they go onto the roof? It's a thirty-foot drop to the patio. And the gutters were cleaned last week. They wouldn't hold the weight."

Silence.

Then, the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps returning. Moving toward the water tank. Toward the eaves.

"Rats like holes," Arthur whispered.

Claire held her breath. Aris’s hand found hers in the dark, gripping tight.

A fist pounded on the wall next to the panel. Once. Twice.

"Come out, Claire. It's dusty in there. And the fiberglass isn't good for your lungs."

Claire didn't move. She didn't breathe.

"Fine," Arthur said. "Have it your way."

He didn't try to open the panel. Instead, there was a metallic *click*. The sound of a lighter.

Then, the smell of smoke.

"Old houses are such firetraps," Arthur said conversationally. "Dry wood. Old insulation. A single spark..."

The smell grew stronger. Acrid. Burning dust.

"You have ten seconds, Claire. Before the smoke does what I couldn't."

He wasn't bluffing. He was going to burn the attic. He was going to burn the evidence, and them along with it.

Claire looked at Aris. He nodded.

They had to move. Not out. Up.

The crawlspace had a vent. A small, square opening that led to the roof. It was tight, but it was their only chance.

Aris boosted her up. Claire pushed the vent cover. It was rusted, stuck.

"Five seconds," Arthur called.

Claire shoved with all her strength. The metal shrieked and gave way.

She pulled herself up onto the slate tiles of the roof, the cold night air hitting her face. She reached down and grabbed Aris’s hand, hauling him up just as the first tendrils of gray smoke curled out of the vent.

They were on the roof. Exposed.

Below them, the lawn was a sea of police lights.

And behind them, climbing out of the dormer window with the agility of a much younger man, was Arthur. He held the gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

"End of the line, Claire," he shouted over the wind.

He raised the gun.

But he didn't fire. He froze.

Because the beam of his flashlight had caught something else on the roof.

David.

He had climbed out of his bedroom window. He stood on the lower gable, staring up at them. At his wife. At the stranger in the mask. And at his father, holding a gun.

"Dad?" David yelled, his voice breaking over the sirens. "What are you doing?"

Arthur lowered the light, but not the gun.

"Go back inside, David," he ordered. "This doesn't concern you."

"You have a gun pointed at my wife!"

"She's a criminal, David! She broke into our home. She's stealing family property."

"She's stealing the truth!" Claire screamed, holding up the notebook. "David! Ask him about the baby! Ask him about November 1993!"

David looked at Arthur. Then at Claire. He took a step up the sloped roof, his dress shoes slipping on the slate.

"What baby?" David asked.

Arthur’s face contorted. A mask of rage slipping over the paternal facade.

"There was no baby!" Arthur roared. "Just a mistake. A mistake I fixed."

He raised the gun again. He aimed it at Claire.

"I fixed it once," he said. "I can fix it again."

David lunged.

He didn't go for the gun. He went for his father. He tackled Arthur around the waist, slamming him against the chimney stack.

The gun went off.

The shot was deafening. A flash of fire in the dark.

Claire screamed.

David and Arthur grappled on the edge of the roof, a tangle of limbs and shadows. The gun skittered away, sliding down the tiles, over the edge, and into the darkness below.

Then, silence.

Arthur lay slumped against the chimney, gasping for breath. David stood over him, his chest heaving, his hands shaking.

He looked at Claire. Then he looked down at the man who had raised him.

"You lied," David whispered. "About everything."

Arthur looked up. He didn't look at his son. He looked past him, at the notebook in Claire's hand.

"It doesn't matter," Arthur wheezed. "No one will believe a thief and a mentally unstable housewife. The Trust owns the police. The Trust owns the judge."

He smiled, blood staining his teeth.

"You can't win, Claire. You're just a visitor here."

"No," a voice said from below.

Sarah stood on the lawn, illuminated by the police lights. She was holding a megaphone she had taken from an officer.

"She's not a visitor," Sarah's amplified voice boomed across the estate. "And she's not alone."

Sarah pointed to the driveway.

A news van had just pulled up. Then another. The media leak.

The cameras were rolling.

Arthur’s smile vanished. For the first time in thirty years, the patriarch of the Vance family looked afraid.

Claire held up the notebook. The evidence of a stolen life.

"It's over, Arthur," she said.

But as the police swarmed the house, Claire looked at David. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at his hands. The hands that had just attacked his father.

The hands of a stranger.

Because if the baby died in 1993