The sound of packing tape ripping off the roll was violent, a sharp shhh-hack that echoed off the glass walls like a gunshot.
I smoothed the plastic strip down over the cardboard flaps, pressing hard enough to turn my fingertips white. Box number forty-two. Kitchen / Misc.
It was the last one.
I stood up, my knees popping in the silence, and surveyed the living room. The Vance Estate, my childhood prison, my glass cage, was finally empty. Without the furniture, without the rugs to muffle the acoustics, the house felt vast and hollow. It didn’t feel like a monster anymore. It just felt like a building. A collection of steel beams and silica that had held too many secrets for too long.
The sun was setting, casting long, amber shadows across the bare floorboards. For the first time in weeks, the Oakhaven Shroud had lifted enough to reveal the valley below—a tapestry of deep green firs and the silver ribbon of the river where Elias had supposedly died, and where he had actually lived.
I walked to the window, resting my forehead against the cool pane.
“It’s done,” I whispered.
The article was published. The truth was out. The town was reeling, the Sheriff was facing a state inquiry, and the “Sandman” was dead. I had done what I came to do. I had excavated the rot. Now, all that was left was to fill in the hole and drive away.
I should have felt triumphant. I should have felt the relief washing over me like a baptism. Instead, I felt a strange, hollow ache in the center of my chest, a phantom weight where the fear used to be.
A car door slammed in the driveway.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t reach for the gun that was no longer in my pocket. I knew that engine sound. It wasn’t a threat; it was a heartbeat.
I turned as the front door opened.
Julian stood there. He was leaning heavily on a cane, his left leg braced in a walking cast from where the beam had pinned him in the mill. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes etched deeper than they had been a month ago, but the gray pallor of shock was gone, replaced by the rugged, weary resilience of a survivor.
He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the healing cuts on his forearms.
“Door was unlocked,” he said, his voice rough.
“I’m not afraid of who walks in anymore,” I said.
He stepped inside, the rubber tip of his cane squeaking on the hardwood. He looked around at the fortress of boxes stacked near the entryway.
“You work fast,” he noted. “Realtor said you weren’t listing it until next month.”
“I’m not listing it,” I said. “I’m selling it to the land conservancy. They’re going to tear it down and let the forest take the ridge back.”
Julian raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Tearing it down? That’s a lot of money you’re turning into mulch, Elara.”
“It’s blood money, Julian. I don’t want it. I just want it gone.”
He nodded slowly, accepting the logic. He limped further into the room, running a hand along the top of a box labeled Books.
“So that’s it,” he said. “Scorched earth. You burn it all down and head back to the city.”
“That was always the plan.”
“Plans change,” he said softly. He stopped and looked at me. Really looked at me. His green eyes were intense, holding a conversation we hadn’t been brave enough to have with words yet. “People change.”
I crossed my arms, a defensive reflex I couldn’t quite shake. “I haven’t changed, Julian. I’m still the girl who ran away. I’m just running with a lighter load this time.”
“You’re not running,” he corrected. “You faced him. You faced all of it. You’re the bravest person I know, Elara. You don’t have to leave to prove you’re free.”
“I can’t stay here,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “Every time I look at the woods, I see him. Every time I walk down Main Street, I see the people who let him rot in a shed. I see the people who looked the other way when Richard had bruises on his knuckles.”
“They’re changing too,” Julian argued, stepping closer. “The article… it woke people up. Mrs. Gable has resigned. The Mayor is stepping down. You did that. You shined a light in the dark, and the roaches are scattering.”
“I’m a journalist, Julian. I shine the light, and then I move on to the next story. I don’t stay to sweep up the dead bugs.”
“Is that what I am?” he asked. “A dead bug? Part of the cleanup?”
The hurt in his voice cracked the shell I was trying so hard to maintain. I walked over to him, invading his space, smelling the rain and cedar and soap that was uniquely him.
“You know you’re not,” I whispered.
I reached out and touched his arm, my fingers tracing the line of the bandage on his wrist.
“You’re the only good thing in this entire zip code,” I said. “You were the only one who tried to save him. You were the only one who tried to save me.”
He dropped the cane. It clattered loud on the floor, but neither of us looked at it. He grabbed my waist, pulling me into him. It wasn’t desperate, like the night in the cabin. It was solid. Grounding.
“Then stay,” he said, his forehead resting against mine. “Stay with me. We can fix this place. We can make it something else.”
“Julian…”
“I love you,” he said. The words hung in the empty room, heavier than the boxes. “I loved you when we were eighteen, and I love you now. I love the broken parts. I love the scar tissue. I love the woman who smashed a wall down with a hammer to find the truth.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. It was a beautiful offer. A life here, with him. A life where we healed the town together.
But then I looked past his shoulder, out the glass wall. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the shadows were stretching out from the treeline. The darkness was coming back. It always came back.
“I can’t,” I choked out.
He pulled back, searching my face. “Why?”
“Because I’m not healed,” I said, tears pricking my eyes. “I’m just… cauterized. If I stay here, the wound will never close. I’ll always be the girl in the glass house. I’ll always be Elias’s princess. I need to go somewhere where nobody knows my name. Where the trees don’t have eyes.”
Julian looked at me for a long, agonizing moment. He saw the resolve in my eyes, the terror that still lingered at the edges of my pupils.
He sighed, a sound of defeat that broke my heart.
“Seattle isn’t that far,” he said quietly.
“It’s far enough.”
He stooped to pick up his cane, wincing as his leg took the weight. He straightened his shirt, putting the mask of the Detective back on.
“When do you leave?” he asked.
“Tomorrow morning. First light.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “Okay.”
He walked to the door. He didn’t look back. He knew that if he looked back, he might not be able to leave, and I might not be able to let him.
“Julian?” I called out.
He stopped, his hand on the latch.
“Thank you,” I said. “For the gun. For the shoes. For everything.”
“Be safe, Elara,” he said.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I was alone.
The silence rushed back in, louder than before. I listened to the engine of his truck fade down the driveway, taking the last bit of warmth with it.
I stood in the center of the empty room, surrounded by my packed life.
“It’s over,” I said aloud, testing the weight of the words.
But the house didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt… expectant.
I looked up at the ceiling. Above the living room was the master suite. And above that, the attic access.
I had packed my room. I had packed the kitchen. I had packed Richard’s study.
But I hadn’t checked the attic.
I told myself there was nothing up there. Just insulation and rat droppings. Elias had lived in the walls, not the attic.
But a nag in the back of my brain—the journalist’s itch—scratched at me.
One last sweep, I told myself. Just to be sure. Just to make sure you didn’t leave anything behind that the demolition crew will find.
I didn’t want to go up there. I wanted to get in my car and drive to the motel.
But I was Elara Vance. I finished the story.
I walked to the hallway, looking up at the square panel in the ceiling. The pull-string dangled like a noose in the gloom.
I reached up and pulled.
The stairs creaked down, a folding ladder of wood and springs. Dust rained down, catching the last of the light.
I climbed.
The attic smelled of dry heat and cedar. It was dark, illuminated only by the light filtering up from the hallway below.
I pulled my phone out and clicked on the flashlight.
The beam cut through the dust.
Boxes. Old holiday decorations. A broken lamp.
I swept the light across the floorboards. Nothing. Just the detritus of a family that had pretended to be happy.
I turned to leave, satisfied.
But then the light caught something in the far corner, wedged behind the brick chimney stack.
It wasn’t a box. It was a loose board.
And sticking out from under it was the corner of a photograph.
I frowned. Elias had kept his photos in the cellar. He had plastered them on the wall. Why would there be one here?
I walked over, crouching down. The air was stifling hot up here, buzzing with trapped flies.
I pinched the corner of the photo and pulled.
It slid out easily. It was dusty, the edges curled with age.
I wiped it on my jeans and shone the light on the image.
It was an old photo. Mid-nineties.
It showed the woods behind the house. The edge of the Weeping Woods.
In the frame were two children.
One was a boy with wild hair and dirt on his face. Elias. He was looking at the camera with a fierce, protective scowl.
The other was a girl.
I expected it to be me. I expected to see my own twelve-year-old face, pale and frightened.
But it wasn’t me.
The girl in the photo was standing slightly