Diana's Turn

-10 degrees. The numbers on the screen were a death sentence, but Marcus was no longer her primary concern. Elena watched the infrared feed of the garage for one more cold, satisfying second before switching back to the guest wing. Marcus was neutralized by the very storm he’d prayed would hide his crimes, but Valerie King—the woman wearing her sister's memory like a trophy—was still inside the envelope of the main house.

The strobe lights in the East Wing created a jagged, nauseating rhythm. On the monitor, a dark shape stumbled through the hallway, hands pressed against its ears. Val had abandoned the crawlspace, driven out by the 120-decibel assault. She was moving blindly, her gait erratic, a silver flashlight swinging wildly in her grip.

Elena gripped the syringe in her left hand, the needle’s cap held between her teeth. She didn't feel the cold anymore. She felt like a machine, calibrated for a single, surgical strike. She moved away from the control panel, slipping into the shadows of the formal dining room.

She knew the house's acoustics better than anyone. She heard the heavy pneumatic *thud* of the second fire door—the one Val was trying to force open.

"Elena!" Val’s voice was a ragged shriek, barely audible over the sirens. "I’ll kill him! I swear to God, I’ll find a way into that room and I’ll stop his heart myself!"

The threat didn't make Elena tremble. It made her move.

She rounded the corner into the long gallery, the hallway lined with the landscape paintings Marcus had bought to make this place feel like an ancestral home. The strobe light from the guest wing bled through the cracks in the fire door at the far end, casting long, rhythmic shadows that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Elena didn't use a light. She navigated by the pulse.

*One-two. Step. One-two. Step.*

She saw the handle of the fire door jiggle. Val was on the other side, throwing her weight against the magnetic seal. The woman was desperate, trapped in a nightmare of sound and light, and desperation made people loud.

Elena positioned herself behind a large Chinese floor vase, a massive porcelain relic that stood five feet tall near the threshold. She stayed low, her breathing shallow and controlled. She was the ghost now.

The sirens suddenly cut out. The silence that followed was so abrupt it felt like a physical blow. Elena hadn't triggered the shut-off.

The system had hit a failsafe.

*Click.*

The magnetic lock disengaged. The fire door swung open with a slow, heavy groan. Val stumbled into the main hallway, her hair disheveled, her face a mask of primal fury. She wasn't looking for a graceful exit anymore. She was looking for blood.

She raised the pistol, her arm shaking from the after-effects of the vertigo. She didn't see Elena in the shadows. She only saw the darkness of the house and the path toward the nursery.

"I know you're here, you bitch," Val spat.

She pulled the trigger.

The bullet shattered the vase next to Elena's head. This wasn't a game anymore.