Five years ago, my husband Mark died from what the county coroner ruled a fatal domestic accident—a slip down our basement stairs.
My fingers brushed the empty SD card slot on the side of the laptop. My mind had already mapped out the quick steps: transfer the files, hide the card, then find a way out.
But the slot was empty.
My breath hitched. I distinctly remembered buying a new, high-capacity SD card a few weeks ago, leaving it on my desk.
It was meant for family photos, a backup for Leo’s school projects.
It wasn’t here.
A cold dread coiled in my gut. Had Arthur found it? Had he already taken it?
A faint tapping sound came from above, near the ceiling. It was light, rhythmic.
*Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.*
Our secret code. Leo.
My head snapped up, searching the dark ceiling. The laundry chute. It emptied into the washing machine in the utility room, directly above my head.
I moved quickly, silently, toward the base of the chute. “Leo?” I whispered.
A small, muffled voice drifted down. “Mom? Are you okay?”
Relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. He was alive.
“I’m alright, honey,” I whispered back, my voice thick with emotion. “Are you safe? Where are you?”
“I’m in the attic,” he replied, his voice still hushed, but clearer now. “I heard him. Arthur. He was talking to Gabe, then he went to the front door. He’s looking for you.”
My heart pounded. Leo was hiding. He was okay.
“Leo, did you… did you take a memory card from my desk?” I asked, forcing myself to be calm.
There was a moment of silence. Then, a hesitant reply.
“Yeah, Mom,” Leo whispered. “I did. Twenty minutes ago, maybe? I saw you leave the house and Arthur’s truck was outside. Then I heard the pot break. It felt… wrong.”
My mind reeled. He had acted on instinct.
“Why, honey? Why did you take it?” I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my tone.
“I don’t know,” he confessed, a tremor in his voice. “I just had a bad feeling. You always said if I felt a bad feeling about something, especially about important things, to protect them.”
He was protecting me. Protecting *us*.
“Where is it now, Leo?” I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my tone. “The card. Where did you hide it?”
“It’s in my rig,” he said, and I pictured his cluttered attic space, full of wires and circuit boards. “My shortwave radio. I taped it inside the power supply. Nobody would ever look there.”
My rig. His ham radio project.
He’d been obsessed with it for months, complaining about strange electronic interference from Arthur’s garage.
Now, that obsession might be our only chance.
“Stay hidden, Leo,” I instructed, my voice firm. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t let him know you’re here.”
“Okay, Mom,” he whispered. “Be careful.”
His voice faded. The silence returned, heavy and menacing.
Arthur was searching for me. He was upstairs, probably tearing through my bedroom, looking for the drive.
And the backup, the duplicate, was with Leo. In the attic.
It was both a lifeline and a terrifying vulnerability. If Arthur found Leo, he found the card.
I was trapped in the basement, the original drive still in my pocket. Leo was in the attic, holding the backup.
And Arthur was hunting us, floor by floor.
I had to move. I had to create a distraction.
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