The Glass Tomb

The wind off the Atlantic didn't just blow; it bit. It carried tiny, frozen particulates of sand that scoured the siding of the multi-million-dollar homes lining the dunes of Point Grey. In July, this place smelled of sunscreen, charcoal, and expensive perfume. In February, it smelled of salt and desolation.

Maya Lin parked her rusted sedan in the driveway of 44 Ocean Avenue. The car’s heater had died three miles back, and her breath was already misting in the cabin. She gripped the steering wheel for a moment, staring up at the house. It was a modernist cube of steel and floor-to-ceiling glass, perched precariously on the edge of the dune line like a precarious thought.

It was the "Glass House," owned by a venture capitalist who only visited for two weeks in August. Maya was paid to check the pipes, dust the unseen surfaces, and ensure the Atlantic Ocean hadn't reclaimed the property.

She stepped out, the wind immediately whipping her hair across her face. She pulled her scarf tighter, grabbed her bucket of cleaning supplies, and marched toward the front door. The keypad beeped angrily as she punched in the code.

The silence inside was absolute. It was a cold silence. The thermostat was set to fifty-five—just enough to keep the pipes from bursting, but low enough to make the air feel thin and sharp.

Maya walked into the living room, the vast expanse of the ocean churning grey and violent through the panoramic windows.

* Something is wrong.*

It wasn't a noise. It was a feeling. A draft.

She walked toward the kitchen. The air was colder here. She turned the corner and saw it—a jagged hole in the sliding glass door leading to the deck. Snow had drifted in, forming a small, pristine white dune on the Brazilian walnut floors.

"Raccoons," she whispered, though she knew raccoons didn't throw rocks through impact-resistant glass.

She pulled a heavy Maglite from her bucket. "Hello?"

Her voice echoed off the hard surfaces. No answer.

She tracked the trail of melted snow. It didn't look like paw prints. It looked like a drag mark. A smear of wetness that turned dark red as it crossed the threshold into the hallway.

Maya stopped. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She should leave. She should run to the car and drive until she found a cell signal. But she stood frozen, staring at the blood. It was fresh.

The trail led to the master suite.

Maya moved forward, the flashlight beam shaking. She pushed the bedroom door open. The bed was untouched, the duvet crisp and white. She followed the smear to the bathroom.

The lights were off. The flashlight beam cut through the dark, illuminating the marble tile, the chrome fixtures, and finally, the bathtub.

A man lay inside. He was dressed in a black suit that was ruined, the fabric torn and sodden. His skin was the color of old paper. His head rested against the porcelain rim, eyes closed. A black duffel bag was wedged between his legs.

Maya gasped, the sound involuntary and sharp.

The man’s eyes snapped open.

In a blur of motion that shouldn't have been possible for someone looking so dead, he raised a gun. The black barrel stared unblinkingly at Maya’s chest.

"Don't," he rasped.

Maya dropped the flashlight. It clattered loudly, spinning across the tile, casting wild, strobing shadows against the walls.

"Dario?"

The name fell out of her mouth before she could process it. It had been ten years. Ten years since the prom. Ten years since he promised he’d come back for her and then vanished into the city. His face was harder now, scarred, the boyish softness shaved away by violence, but it was him.

Dario Vance blinked, fighting through a haze of pain. The gun wavered. "Maya?"

"You're bleeding," she said, her fear momentarily eclipsed by the shock of recognition.

"Gut shot," he grunted. He lowered the gun, his strength failing. "Don't... don't call the cops. Please. Just one night."

"Dario, you need a hospital."

"No hospital," he coughed, and blood flecked his lips. "They'll finish it. Just let me... let me rest."

He slumped back, the gun slipping from his fingers and clattering into the dry tub.

Maya looked at the weapon. She looked at the blood pooling beneath him. She thought about her phone in her pocket. She thought about the police station ten miles away.

Then she looked at his face. He looked terrified. Not of dying, but of being found.

She remembered the boy who had held her hand on the Ferris wheel. She remembered the boy who had bought her mother flowers when she first got sick.

Maya kicked the gun away, sliding it across the floor. She knelt beside the tub.

"I'm going to regret this," she whispered.