A beat.
“Local PD just reported a power surge in the area,” another voice says. “Then a blackout. Fire alarm pinged and died.”
Cold slides down my spine.
“Get me a helicopter.”
We’re airborne in twelve minutes.
The house sits on a bluff over the ocean. White. Quiet. Almost gentle. The kind of place people buy to forget who they used to be.
Smoke is already rising from the back.
“Fire department’s en route,” the pilot says.
“They won’t be in time,” I answer.
We land hard.
I’m moving before the skids stop.
The front door is unlocked.
That’s when I know.
Inside smells like accelerant, hot wires, and salt air. The house hums faintly, like something is still drawing power somewhere it shouldn’t.
On the entry table sits a single envelope.
My name.
I open it.
Marco,
I always knew you’d be the one to come. Not because you’re loyal — but because you’re thorough.
You were never meant for my world. That was my one real mistake.
My throat tightens.
If you’re reading this, it means I’ve already solved the last problem.
I move.
The hallway is smoke and heat. The walls are warm to the touch. Somewhere deeper in the house, something pops and cracks.
I find her in the sitting room.
She’s seated calmly in a chair facing the ocean, hands folded in her lap.
She’s already gone.
A small pill bottle rests on the table beside her.
Behind her, the curtains are burning.
Sprinklers do not come on.
