Voices in the Dark

The hallway was a tunnel of silence, interrupted only by the frantic thudding of my heart. I clutched my phone like a lifeline, the screen still glowing with the flat red line of the audio feed.

*Connection Lost.*

He had found the device.

I reached Arthur's door. It was closed. Not locked, just closed. I pressed my ear to the wood, but the heavy oak muffled everything. The house was holding its breath, waiting for me to exhale.

I pushed the door open, just an inch.

The room was dark, but the moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains illuminated the scene like a stage set.

Arthur was still in bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin, his eyes squeezed shut. He was pretending to sleep, his breathing shallow and rapid.

And standing over him, backlit by the window, was a shadow.

It wasn't Richard. Richard was shorter, broader in the shoulders. This figure was tall, lean, with a posture that was both arrogant and relaxed.

He was holding something. A pillow.

He leaned down, whispering something I couldn't hear. Arthur whimpered, a small, pathetic sound that tore at my chest.

The shadow straightened up. He turned his head, scanning the room, his gaze sweeping over the dresser where the baby monitor sat unplugged, then moving to the nightstand.

He picked up the small black stone Dr. Thorne had left.

He turned it over in his hand, examining it. Then he dropped it on the floor and crushed it under his heel.

The crunch of plastic was deafening.

"Clever," he said. His voice was low, raspy, the voice I had heard in my earbud. "But not clever enough."

He turned back to Arthur.

"Where is she, Arthur? Where is the little mouse?"

Arthur shook his head against the pillow. "Gone. She's gone."

"Liar."

The shadow moved toward the door. Toward me.

I backed away, my bare feet silent on the runner. I needed a weapon. I needed help.

But Richard was asleep in our room, sedated by his own denial. And Mrs. Higgins was snoring softly in the guest room down the hall.

I was alone.

I retreated into the shadows of the alcove where the linen closet stood. The figure stepped out into the hallway.

He didn't look left or right. He walked straight toward the stairs, his movements fluid and silent.

As he passed a shaft of moonlight, I saw his face.

It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't a ghost.

It was the face from the photograph on the console table. Older. Harder. A scar running from his temple to his jaw, white and jagged against the tan skin.

Julian Vance.

He wasn't just alive. He was here. Inside the main house.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark foyer. Then he turned and looked directly at the alcove where I was hiding.

He couldn't see me. It was impossible.

But he smiled. A slow, cruel curving of his lips.

"Stop crying, old man," he whispered to the empty air. "You owe me this life."

He turned and walked down the stairs, disappearing into the darkness of the first floor.

I sank to the floor, my legs giving out. He wasn't looking for money. He wasn't looking for forgiveness.

He was looking for something else.

I waited until I heard the faint click of the back door opening and closing. Then I ran back to our bedroom.

Richard was still asleep. I shook him, hard.

"Richard! Wake up!"

He groaned, rolling over. "What? Helen? What time is it?"

"He was here," I hissed. "Julian. He was in Arthur's room."

Richard sat up, blinking in the darkness. "You're dreaming. Go back to sleep."

"I saw him, Richard! I heard him!"

"Helen, stop." He grabbed my arm, his grip painful. "You're hysterical. There's no one here."

"Check the back door," I challenged. "Check the mudroom."

He stared at me for a long moment, then threw off the covers. He marched downstairs, turning on every light as he went. I followed him.

The back door was locked. The alarm was still green.

"See?" he said, gesturing to the panel. "Secure. No one came in. No one went out."

"He has the code," I said. "He has a key."

"He's dead, Helen!" Richard shouted, his voice echoing in the kitchen. "He's been dead for thirty years! Stop this!"

He turned to go back upstairs.

I stayed in the kitchen. I walked to the back door and unlocked it. I stepped out onto the porch.

The rain had stopped. The air was cold and still.

I looked down at the doormat.

There, in the center of the bristly fiber, was a single, muddy footprint.

It was too large to be mine. Too narrow to be Richard's.

And next to it, lying on the concrete, was a cigarette butt.

*Lucky Strike.*

I picked it up. It was still warm.