Arthur's Note

Tommy Finch. A boy with a cowlick and a silver compass, reduced to a "handled" problem. The microfiche machine hummed, a mechanical dirge in the library basement, as I stared at the grainy image of the neighbor who had spent twenty-eight years walled into the master suite.

I stood up, my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. I needed to get back. Arthur’s structural appraisal wasn't an inspection; it was an extraction.

I drove home with the windows down, the freezing February air whipping my hair across my face, trying to stay awake, trying to stay present. The chemical fog Harrison insisted on was thicker today, a heavy curtain threatening to drop over the new, jagged edges of my memory.

I let myself in through the front door. The house was silent. Leo was in his room, the distant thump of bass from his speakers vibrating through the floorboards.

Arthur’s note was still on the granite island, a white scar against the dark stone. I picked it up, the heavy cardstock feeling like an indictment.

*I’ve scheduled a structural appraisal for Friday. Don’t be difficult.*

Friday. Three days away. Arthur didn't move that fast for anything unless there was a legal loophole to close or a body to move. He was using the unpermitted work Julian and I had discussed to bring in a city-certified inspector—someone Arthur likely had in his pocket. They would claim the second floor was a safety hazard. They would red-tag the building.

I walked to the kitchen window, staring out at the frozen driveway. The logic was cold and perfect. Once the house was red-tagged, no one could legally live there. I would be forced to take Leo to a hotel or, more likely, to Harrison’s clinical guest wing.

While I was gone, "crews" would arrive. Arthur would oversee the "remediation." The wall would be opened, the green nylon bag would be removed, and the evidence of Arthur’s crime would vanish into a private incinerator.

He was using the law to facilitate a secondary burial.

I looked down at the note again. On the back, in smaller, tighter script, was a postscript I hadn't noticed in the dim light of the early morning.

*P.S. I’ve updated the security codes. The old ones were compromised. Your new access is restricted to the main level for the duration of the appraisal prep. Safety first, El.*

I felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror. I ran to the foyer and punched my birthday into the keypad for the second-floor alarm zone.

*Access Denied.*

I tried Leo’s birthday.

*Access Denied.*

I looked up at the landing. The red light on the motion sensor was a steady, unblinking eye. If I stepped on those stairs, the alarm would trigger a direct alert to the police—and to Arthur’s phone.

He had cut off my access to the master suite. He had cut off my access to the attic. He was leaving me in the house but keeping me away from the truth until he could erase it forever.

He wasn't just managing my anxiety.

He was locking her out of the crime scene.