The Midnight Visitor

The front door clicked open. Elena froze, her breath trapped in her lungs, her eyes fixed on the speaker that transmitted the faint sounds from two floors below.

"Hello?"

The voice was tentative. Male. It wasn't Julian. It wasn't the police.

It was Marcus.

Elena scrambled to her feet. The night nurse. He wasn't scheduled until tomorrow. Why was he here at 2 AM?

"Mr. Vance?" Marcus called out again, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous foyer. "Julian called the agency. Said there was an emergency?"

Julian. Of course. He needed someone to manage Arthur while he tore the house apart looking for the ledger. He needed a babysitter for his hostage.

Elena moved to the attic door. She unlocked it as quietly as she could, the mechanism stiff with age. She cracked it open.

Below, on the second-floor landing, she heard Julian’s voice, sharp and commanding. He must have come out of the library.

"You're late," Julian snapped.

"I got here as soon as dispatch called," Marcus replied, his tone professional but guarded. "What's the situation? Is he stable?"

"He's fine. He's just... agitated. He's been trying to get out of bed. I need you to make sure he stays put. Sedate him if you have to."

"I can't just sedate a patient because he's restless, Mr. Vance. I need to assess him."

"Just do your job," Julian growled. "Keep him in that room. And keep the door closed. We have... contractors working downstairs. It's loud."

"Contractors? At 2 AM?"

"Emergency repairs. A pipe burst."

Lies. Layers and layers of lies.

Elena slipped out of the attic, closing the door softly behind her. She crept down the stairs, keeping to the shadows. She needed to get to Marcus before he went into Arthur's room. She needed an ally, and Marcus was the only person in this house who wasn't a Vance.

She reached the landing just as Julian turned back toward the stairs, heading down to check on the locksmith. He didn't see her. He was too focused on his heist.

Marcus stood outside Arthur's door, his hand on the knob. He looked tired. His scrubs were wrinkled.

"Marcus," Elena whispered.

He jumped, spinning around. His eyes widened when he saw her. She must have looked like a ghost—dust-covered, clothes torn, eyes wild.

"Elena? What happened to you?"

She put a finger to her lips and hurried toward him. "You can't go in there yet. Not until I tell you what's happening."

"Julian said a pipe burst. He said Arthur was—"

"Julian is lying," she hissed. She grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the door, toward the end of the hall where the shadows were deeper. "There is no pipe. He's drilling into the wall safe in the library. He's looking for something Arthur hid."

Marcus frowned, his brow furrowing. "What kind of something?"

"Evidence," Elena said. She didn't have time to explain everything. She needed him to trust her. "Marcus, Arthur isn't just agitated. He's terrified. Julian... Julian isn't trying to protect him. He's trying to erase him."

Marcus looked at her, searching her face. He was a professional. He saw hysteria every day. But he also saw trauma.

"He asked me to sedate him," Marcus said slowly. "Without an assessment."

"Because he doesn't want Arthur to talk. He doesn't want him to signal anything."

Marcus looked back at the closed bedroom door. "If he's in danger, I have to intervene. That's my license."

"Then intervene," Elena said. "But not the way Julian wants. Go in there. Check his vitals. But don't sedate him. Ask him about the letters."

"Letters?"

"Just ask him. Watch his eyes."

A crash from downstairs—the sound of metal hitting wood—made them both flinch.

"I have to check the patient," Marcus said, his voice firming up. "Stay here."

He walked to the door and opened it.

Elena waited in the hall, counting the seconds. She heard Marcus's low, soothing voice. She heard the beep of the monitors.

And then she heard a gasp.

It wasn't Arthur. It was Marcus.

"Mr. Vance," Marcus said, his voice loud, shaken. "Put that down."

Elena ran to the door.

Arthur was sitting up in bed. He wasn't holding a weapon. He was holding a heavy, brass candlestick—the one from the bedside table. He was gripping it with his left hand, raising it above his head, his eyes fixed on the door with a manic, desperate intensity.

But he wasn't looking at Marcus. He was looking past him. At Elena.

And then she saw what Marcus couldn't see from his angle.

On the nightstand, next to the water pitcher, was a syringe. Not one of Marcus's. It was old-fashioned, glass and steel.

And it was empty.

"Your brother said Arthur was agitated. He wanted me to sedate him."