The Grey Samsonite

The air inside was cold and smelled of Robert's cologne—the expensive kind he stopped wearing ten years ago.

Sylvia leaned back, her knees cracking on the hardwood floor. The scent was suffocatingly familiar, a ghost drifting out from the dark mouth in her wall. It made her stomach turn.

"Mrs. Vance?" Mateo called from the hallway. His footsteps were heavy, urgent. "The breaker for this circuit was taped over. Someone bypassed the main switch. It's wired directly into the line before the meter."

Sylvia didn't look away from the void. "He wanted it to stay on," she whispered. "Even if the power went out."

She stood up, dusting off her slacks. The grey Samsonite suitcase sat on the bench like an accusation. She couldn't leave it there. Not with the contractors walking in and out. Not with Lucas due to stop by later to check on his father's 'progress.'

"Help me move this," she said, her voice sharp.

Mateo hurried into the room. He grabbed the handle of the suitcase, his biceps flexing under his dust-covered t-shirt. "Where to?"

"The guest room closet. Under the quilts."

He nodded, hefting the heavy case with surprising ease. As he carried it out, Sylvia turned back to the hole. She needed to know what else was in there.

She grabbed the flashlight Mateo had left on the dresser and stepped through the jagged drywall opening.

The beam cut through the stagnant air. The room was narrow, claustrophobic. The single wooden chair sat in the center, facing the blank wall as if waiting for a performance.

Sylvia shined the light on the floor. Dust bunnies, undisturbed for decades. And in the corner, where the suitcase had been, a small pile of something white.

She crouched down.

Envelopes.

A stack of them, bound with a rubber band that had long since snapped and crumbled away.

She picked them up. The paper was yellowed, brittle.

They were letters.

She shined the light on the top one. The handwriting was cramped, feminine.

*To Robert.*

No return address. Just a postmark.

*Lancaster, PA. 1994.*

Sylvia felt a cold sweat prickle her neck. 1994. The year Lucas was born. The year Robert had spent three months 'consulting' on a development project in Philadelphia.

She flipped through the stack. 1995. 1996. 1998.

Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

She didn't open them. She couldn't read them here, in this suffocating box of a room. She shoved the stack into the deep pocket of her cardigan, feeling the sharp corners dig into her hip.

She swept the light across the walls. They were smooth, painted that soft dove grey. No pictures. No shelves. Just the chair.

Why?

Why build a room just to sit in the dark?

She turned the light on the chair. It was a simple wooden dining chair, the kind you’d find in a farmhouse kitchen. But the seat was worn smooth.

He had spent time here. A lot of time.

Sitting.

Thinking.

Hiding.

"Mrs. Vance!" Mateo's voice was frantic now. "You need to come out. Now."

Sylvia stepped back into the bedroom, blinking against the sudden brightness. Mateo was standing by the window, looking down at the driveway.

"What is it?"

"A car just pulled up. Black sedan. Tinted windows." He turned to her, his face grim. "I recognize the driver. It's that lawyer. Mr. Sterling."

Arthur Sterling. Robert's oldest friend. His attorney. The man who had held Lucas at his baptism.

"He's not supposed to be here," Sylvia said. "He's supposed to be at the courthouse filing the injunctions for the business."

"He's getting out," Mateo said. "And he's looking up at this window."

Sylvia moved to the side of the curtain, peering through the sheer fabric.

Arthur was standing in the driveway, staring directly at the master bedroom window. He wasn't wearing his usual impeccable suit. He was in shirt sleeves, his tie loosened, his face flushed.

He looked terrified.

He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed.

A second later, the landline on Sylvia's nightstand rang.

She stared at it.

Then, the burner phone in the suitcase—now hidden in the guest room—began to vibrate against the floorboards. She could feel the hum of it through the soles of her shoes.

Arthur wasn't calling the house.

The luggage tag didn't say Robert Vance. It said 'R.V. - Line B'.