The Lobby

The driveway was long, winding through acres of silent, moonlit trees. I drove slowly, my headlights cutting a narrow tunnel through the darkness. The facility loomed ahead, a fortress of brick and glass perched on the edge of the ridge.

It was too quiet.

I parked the rental in the main lot. There were only a few cars. Employee vehicles. A delivery van.

I walked to the front entrance. The sliding glass doors were locked. A card reader glowed red next to the intercom.

I pressed the buzzer.

"Yes?" The same bored voice.

"Corinne Hawthorne," I said again, injecting every ounce of haughty irritation I could muster into my voice. "The door is locked. Are you making me wait out here?"

"Sorry, ma'am. Buzzing you in."

The lock clicked. The doors slid open.

I stepped inside.

The lobby was vast and sterile. High ceilings, polished marble floors, a reception desk that looked more like a fortress wall. The air smelled of lavender and antiseptic, a cloying attempt to mask the underlying scent of old age and institutional food.

The receptionist was a young man with a bad haircut and a name tag that read *Kyle*. He looked up from a magazine, his eyes widening slightly as I approached.

"Mrs. Hawthorne?" he asked, uncertain.

He had never met Corinne. He didn't know what she looked like. He only knew the name.

"Yes," I said. I didn't stop at the desk. I kept walking toward the elevators. "My husband forgot his phone. I'm just picking it up."

"Wait, ma'am," Kyle said, scrambling out of his chair. "I need to see some ID. It's policy."

I stopped. I turned slowly, giving him my best glare. The one I used on junior auditors who botched their spreadsheets.

"ID?" I repeated. "My husband owns this facility, Kyle. Do you really want to explain to him why you interrogated his wife at three in the morning?"

Kyle hesitated. He looked at the computer screen, then back at me. He was young. He was tired. And he was terrified of making a mistake.

"I... I just need to log the visit," he stammered. "If you could just sign in?"

He pushed a digital tablet across the counter.

I walked back to the desk. I picked up the stylus.

"Fine," I sighed. "But make it quick."

I bent over the tablet. I pretended to struggle with the signature field. "This thing is impossible."

"Sorry," Kyle said. "The screen is a little glitchy."

While I feigned incompetence, my eyes scanned the log on the monitor behind the desk. It was open. A list of recent visitors.

*11:45 PM - P. Linens - Delivery.*
*09:15 PM - Dr. Aris Thorne - Medical.*
*04:30 PM - A. Hawthorne - Family.*

I froze.

*A. Hawthorne.*

Arthur had been here. Today.

Why? He usually came on Sundays. Today was Tuesday.

"There," I said, scribbling an illegible scrawl on the tablet. "Done."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne," Kyle said. He looked relieved. "Have a good night."

"I will," I said.

I turned back to the elevators. I pressed the call button.

The doors opened instantly. I stepped inside.

As the doors closed, I looked at the visitor log one last time in my mind.

Arthur hadn't just visited. He had signed out at 8:00 PM.

But there was another entry right below his. One I had missed in my rush.

*08:15 PM - J. Hawthorne - Family.*

Julian.

My husband had been here too.

He had lied to me. Again.

He told me he hadn't seen his mother in ten years. He told me he thought she was dead.

But he was here four hours ago.

The elevator chimed. Fourth floor.

The doors slid open.

And I stepped out into the hallway of the dead woman who was very much alive.