Heavy Lifting

David’s scar was a jagged, silvery rope that disappeared into the shadows of his jawline. Sarah couldn't pull her eyes away. It was the physical manifestation of the black ink she’d read in the library, a permanent record of the night Elena Vance stopped being a sister and started being a predator.

"You're staring," David said, his voice flat, devoid of the heat Sarah felt radiating from the morning sun. He adjusted his collar, the denim snapping back into place, hiding the mark.

"The medical log," Sarah whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "It said the victim didn't know what hit him. It said she was behind you."

David didn't answer. He gripped the heavy plastic bin, his muscles tensing as he lifted it with a grunt. He walked toward the dark mouth of the basement stairs, his movements methodical and weary. Sarah followed him, the air growing cooler and smelling of damp earth and old newspaper as they descended.

The basement was a labyrinth of cardboard towers, a subterranean extension of the hoard above. David set the bin down with a dull thud. He began moving boxes with a practiced efficiency, clearing a path toward the back corner where the oldest stacks were kept.

"I don't want your money, Sarah," David said, his back still toward her. "And I don't want to be part of your crusade. I just want to keep the peace. My mother... she can't handle a scandal. Not now."

"It’s not a scandal, David. It’s a crime. It’s an ongoing crime."

Sarah reached for a smaller box, but a sharp, rhythmic sound from above made her freeze.

*Click. Click. Click.*

The sound of orthopedic shoes on the kitchen linoleum. Margaret was home.

Sarah’s breath hitched. She looked at David, who had gone completely still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The heavy basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open. A sliver of light cut through the gloom, illuminating the dancing dust motes.

"Sarah?" Margaret’s voice was high, sharp, and laced with that artificial sweetness that always preceded a blow. "Are you down there, dear? I thought I heard voices."

Sarah stepped deeper into the shadows of a stack of old encyclopedias. David didn't move. He stood in the center of the cleared floor, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

Margaret descended the stairs slowly, her hand gripping the railing until her knuckles were white. She reached the bottom and stopped, her gaze immediately locking onto David. The transformation was instantaneous. The grandmotherly mask vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory alertness.

"David Thorne," Margaret said, her eyes narrowing into slits. "I don't recall inviting you into my home."

"He's helping me, Mom," Sarah said, stepping out from the shadows, her voice shaking. "These boxes are too heavy for me."

Margaret didn't look at her daughter. She kept her focus on David, her presence expanding until she seemed to fill the cramped, subterranean space. "We have professional movers coming on Monday, Sarah. We don't need the neighbors poking around in our private business."

"I'm just helping with the lifting, Mrs. Vance," David said, his voice barely a whisper.

"We value our privacy, David. I think you of all people should understand that." Margaret stepped closer, the hem of her floral housecoat brushing against a box. She gestured toward the stairs with a sharp, dismissive motion. "You can go now. My daughter and I have family matters to discuss. Private matters."

David looked at Sarah, a flicker of apology—or warning—crossing his face. He turned and walked up the stairs, his head bowed. Sarah watched him go, feeling the last of her support vanish with him.

Margaret waited until the front door clicked shut before turning to Sarah. She didn't scream. She didn't even raise her voice. She simply walked over to the stack David had been clearing.

'Looking for something, David?' Margaret's voice was calm. She was looking at the 1999 box in his hands.