Arthur's Ramblings

Arthur Vance doesn't look like a man lost in a fog. He looks like a man drowning in a crystal-clear pool, screaming silently at the surface. His eyes are a startling, vivid blue—the same shade as Julian’s—and they lock onto mine with a terrifying intensity the second I step into the room.

"The records are incomplete," he rasps, his voice a dry wheeze. He doesn't ask who I am. He doesn't seem surprised to see a stranger in a state-issued badge. He just taps the yellowed newspaper clipping in his lap. "The heat... it was too high for a short circuit. Physics doesn't lie, even if mothers do."

I move closer, my shadow falling across his knees. The clipping is a tiny obituary, the same one I found in the digital archives. The name *David Arthur Vance* is circled in red ink so dark it looks like dried blood.

"Arthur," I say softly, crouching beside his chair. "I'm Clara. I'm married to... your son."

I stumble over the word. Which son? The one in the ground or the one in my house? Arthur’s gaze flickers, a moment of profound confusion washing over his features before the clarity snaps back into place like a spring.

"The shadow boy," Arthur whispers. He leans in, the smell of antiseptic and old wool clinging to him. "The one she polished until he sparkled. But if you rub the gold away, you find the soot. You find the boy from the ashes."

"He calls himself David now," I say, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "But I know about Hillview. I know about the arson charge."

Arthur lets out a low, whistling breath. He begins to rock back and forth, his fingers picking at the frayed edges of the newspaper. "She told him it was his fault. Every day. Every night. 'You held the candle, Caleb. You let it drop.' A boy will believe anything if the person saying it is holding the key to his cage."

I reach out, covering his hand with mine. His skin is like cold wax. "Is it true, Arthur? Did Caleb start the fire?"

Arthur stops rocking. The silence in the room becomes absolute, a physical weight pressing against my eardrums. He looks out the window, toward the manicured gardens that serve as his high-priced perimeter.

"The insurance claim was filed before the fire was even out," he mutters, his eyes clouding over. "A masterpiece of timing. She always was a logistics expert. She needed a son who owed her everything. A son who was a secret."

I lean in, my mouth inches from his ear. I take the ultimate risk, the one that will either break the haze or trigger a nursing alarm.

"Caleb," I whisper.

The effect is electric. Arthur’s entire body jerks. He drops the newspaper, his hands fly up, and he seizes my wrist with a grip so powerful I can feel the bones in my forearm grinding together. The sedation hasn't touched the muscle memory of his rage.

Arthur grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. 'She struck the match. Eleanor struck the match.'