The Living Witness

"Fighting a divorce?" Claire laughed, a sharp, fractured sound. "He stole my children, Aris. That’s not a divorce. That’s a hostage situation."

"To the courts, it's a protective order," Aris said, starting the car. He pulled out of the motel lot, checking his mirrors. "My father filed the motion an hour ago. He cited your 'mental instability' and 'erratic behavior.' He used the fire as proof."

"The fire Arthur started."

"Which David witnessed you start."

Claire leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. David. He was lost. Buried under layers of gaslighting so thick he couldn't see the sky.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To find Simon Vance," Aris said. "If Arthur sourced a child from his own brother, we need to know why. And we need to know where the other boy is."

"The one who screamed," Claire whispered.

They drove north, toward the Catskills. Simon Vance lived in exile, banished to a dilapidated farmhouse in the mountains after the '80s scandal that had seen him stripped of his shares in the company.

"Do you know him?" Claire asked.

"I know the stories," Aris said. "He was the wild one. The artist. Arthur hated him because he refused to play the game."

"And yet Arthur paid him fifty thousand dollars in 1992."

"Desperate men do desperate things," Aris said.

They arrived at the farmhouse just as the sun was beginning to bleed through the gray clouds. The house was a wreck—peeling paint, overgrown yard, a porch that sagged under the weight of neglect.

Claire got out of the car. The air was thin and cold here.

She knocked on the door.

No answer.

She knocked again, harder.

"Go away!" a voice shouted from inside. It was hoarse, ragged.

"Simon Vance?" Claire called out. "My name is Claire. I'm David's wife."

Silence. Then the sound of bolts sliding back. The door creaked open.

Simon Vance looked like a ghost of his brother. He had the same eyes, the same jaw, but everything about him was softer, broken. He wore a stained cardigan and held a bottle of whiskey like a shield.

"David," he muttered, squinting at her. "Arthur's boy."

"He's not Arthur's boy," Claire said. "Is he?"

Simon’s eyes widened. He tried to slam the door, but Aris put his boot in the jamb.

"We just want to talk, Simon," Aris said. "About November 1992."

Simon looked at Aris, then back at Claire. He let the door swing open.

"Come in," he said. "Before the ghosts get out."

The inside of the house was a shrine to the past. Paintings lined the walls—violent, abstract swirls of red and black. Empty bottles cluttered the tables.

Simon sat in a velvet armchair, gesturing for them to take the sofa.

"You took the money," Claire said. "Fifty thousand dollars."

"I was starving," Simon said. "Arthur made sure of that. He cut me off. No trust fund. No job. Just... exile."

"What did you give him for the money?"

Simon took a long pull from the bottle.

"I gave him my silence," he said. "And I gave him the boy."

Claire’s heart stopped. "David?"

"No," Simon said. "Not David. David came later. David came from the agency. I'm talking about the first one. The one who didn't work out."

"The one in the basement," Claire whispered.

"His name was Thomas," Simon said, tears leaking from his eyes. "He was my son. My illegitimate son. Arthur found out. He said he could give the boy a better life. He said Evelyn needed a child, and I couldn't provide one."

He looked at Claire.

"I sold him. I sold my son to my brother."

"And what happened to him?" Aris asked.

"He was... difficult," Simon said. "He missed his mother. He cried. Arthur didn't like the crying. He said the boy was defective."

Simon covered his face with his hands.

"One night, Arthur called me. He said I had to come get him. He said the boy was 'broken'. But when I got there... he wasn't there."

"Where was he?"

"Arthur said he sent him away," Simon whispered. "To a school. A special school. But I never saw him again. And then, a few months later... he had a new boy. A blonde boy. David."

"Thomas is dead," Claire said. The realization hit her with the force of a blow. "Arthur killed him. Just like he killed Evelyn."

"I know," Simon sobbed. "I know."

Claire stood up. She looked at the broken man in the chair.

"You have to testify," she said. "You have to tell the police."

"I can't," Simon said. "He pays me. Every month. If I talk, the money stops."

"If you don't talk," Claire said, leaning over him, "he's going to do it again. He has my children, Simon. He has my daughters."

Simon looked up. For a moment, the fog of alcohol cleared.

"The girls?"

"Yes."

Simon stood up. He walked to a painting on the wall—a chaotic swirl of gray and blue. He pulled it down.

Behind it was a wall safe.

"I kept it," he said. "The only thing I have left of Thomas."

He opened the safe. Inside was a single, small shoe. A red sneaker.

And a cassette tape.

"I recorded the call," Simon said. "The night he told me to come get the body."

He handed the tape to Claire.

"Take down the bastard," Simon said. "For Thomas."

Claire took the tape. She looked at the label.

*November 14, 1992.*

The same night Evelyn died.

It wasn't just fraud. It was a massacre.