Vital Signs
Chapter 59 · ~5.3k words
The Trophy Room was a tomb, silent and suffocating. Marcus stood in the doorway, his pulse thudding a frantic rhythm against his throat. He checked his tablet again. The remote feed from Arthur’s heart monitor was steady, the line a jagged green horizon on the screen. 80 beats per minute.
Arthur wasn’t sleeping. He was waiting.
Marcus stepped further into the room. The air smelled of dust and old leather, preserved like the dead animals staring down from the walls. He wasn't supposed to be here. He had slipped back into the house while the police were busy at the front gate, using the service entrance Claire had described.
He needed to confirm what Elena suspected.
He moved to the shelves. Awards, plaques, the tangible proof of Arthur Vance’s “greatness.” But Marcus wasn't looking for trophies. He was looking for triggers.
He walked along the wall of bookshelves, his eyes darting between the objects and the tablet in his hand.
He touched a leather-bound encyclopedia. Volume A-B.
Nothing. The heart rate stayed at 80.
He moved down the line. Volume C-D. Volume E-F.
Still 80.
He reached the section marked M. *Medicine.* *Malpractice.* *Murder.*
He placed his hand on the spine of Volume M-N.
*Beep. Beep. Beep.*
The line on the tablet spiked. 95. 100. 110.
Marcus pulled his hand back as if burned. The heart rate dropped. 90. 85.
He touched it again.
*115. 120.*
It wasn't a coincidence. Arthur was watching him. Somewhere in the house, a camera was trained on this exact spot, feeding the image to the old man in the hospital bed. Or maybe he just *knew*.
"You're terrified of this one, aren't you?" Marcus whispered.
He pulled the book from the shelf. It was heavy, the binding stiff. He opened it.
Hollowed out.
But empty.
Just a rectangular void where something important used to be. A gun? A ledger?
No. The dust pattern was wrong. It was too small for a ledger.
He looked closer. There was a faint indentation in the felt lining of the hidden compartment. A circular impression.
Like a bottle.
Marcus frowned. He scanned the shelf again. The books were perfectly aligned, but there was a gap next to where Volume M-N had been. A small, dusty space.
He checked the tablet. The heart rate was holding steady at 110. Anxious, but not critical.
He moved his hand to the next shelf. The one with the bowling trophy and the gavel.
He touched the gavel.
*130.*
The spike was immediate. Violent.
Marcus stared at the gavel. It looked innocuous. A symbol of justice. Or power.
He picked it up.
*140. 150.*
On the screen, the alarm indicator started flashing red. *TACHYCARDIA WARNING.*
Arthur wasn't just watching. He was panicking.
Marcus turned the gavel over. The wood was smooth, seamless. But the weight was off. It felt… top-heavy.
He tried to unscrew the handle, but it was solid.
Then he looked at the sounding block. The round disc of wood the gavel struck to silence a room. To end an argument.
He tapped it. It sounded dense. But not solid.
He checked the tablet. *160.*
If he didn't put it down, Arthur might actually have a heart attack.
And that would be a shame. He needed to be alive for the trial.
Marcus set the gavel down, but he didn't step away. He looked at the shelf again. The bowling trophy. The gavel.
And the empty space between them.
A clean circle in the dust.
Someone had already taken something from here.
Elena.
She had been here. She had taken the perfume bottle.
But Arthur hadn’t panicked then. Or maybe he had, and no one was watching.
Marcus looked at the tablet. The heart rate was slowly coming down. 140. 130.
He realized something terrifying.
Arthur wasn't afraid of Marcus finding the gavel. He was afraid of Marcus *looking* at the gavel. Because the gavel was a distraction.
A decoy.
The real secret wasn't on the shelf.
Marcus turned around. He looked at the room. The fireplace. The desk. The lion.
He walked to the center of the room. He stood on the Persian rug.
The heart rate dropped. 90. 80. 70.
Calm.
Arthur felt safe when Marcus was in the center of the room.
Which meant the danger was on the perimeter.
Marcus walked to the window. He looked out at the rain-soaked garden. The fountain with the angel.
*70.*
He walked to the fireplace. The lion head loomed above him, teeth bared.
*72.*
He walked to the wall of filing cabinets near the door. Locked.
*75.*
He turned back to the shelves. To the medical encyclopedias. To the gavel.
He reached out and touched the shelf itself. The wood.
*165.*
The monitor screamed.
It wasn't the objects on the shelf. It was the shelf.
Marcus gripped the edge of the mahogany. He pulled.
It didn't move.
He pushed.
A click.
The entire section of the bookcase swung inward, just an inch.
A false wall.
Marcus’s breath caught in his throat. He pushed it harder. The hinges groaned.
Behind the books was a narrow, dark space. A safe room. Or a vault.
He shone his flashlight into the darkness.
It wasn't a room. It was a dumbwaiter. A small, manual lift built into the wall.
And sitting on the platform of the lift, covered in thirty years of dust, was a blue ledger.
Marcus reached for it.
On the tablet, the line went flat.
*SIGNAL LOST.*
Arthur had pulled the plug. Or someone else had.
Marcus grabbed the ledger.
And then the lights in the Trophy Room went out.
Suddenly, a massive crash echoed from the bedroom.