Chapter 11: Confronting the Past Across Town
The rain beat a steady, rhythmic tattoo against the windshield of Arthur’s sedan as he navigated the slick city streets toward the old West End district. The neighborhood was a maze of narrow alleys, brick warehouses, and weathered storefronts that time seemed to have forgotten. Nestled between a dry cleaner and a boarded-up bookstore was Vance’s Antiquities—a dusty, dimly lit shop with iron bars on the windows and a brass bell that sounded more like a muffled warning than a welcome.
Arthur parked the car illegally right in front of the door, not caring about parking regulations or traffic tickets. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar brass bell chiming overhead.
The interior of the shop smelled of mothballs, old leather, and damp carpet. Glass cases cluttered with tarnished silver, broken pocket watches, and strange Victorian trinkets stretched into the gloom. Behind the main counter stood an old man with thinning white hair, wearing a worn cardigan and thick bifocals—Vincent Vance, looking older, thinner, and sharper-eyed than he had twenty years ago.
Vincent looked up as Arthur approached, his gaze narrowing behind his glasses as recognition flickered in his cloudy eyes.
""Well, well,"" Vincent croaked, his voice like dry leaves scraping across pavement. ""Arthur Parker. I haven't seen you darken my door since... what, the day your daughter ran off?""
Arthur didn't waste time with pleasantries. He strode across the worn carpet, placed both hands flat on the glass counter, and leaned over until his face was only inches from Vincent’s.
""I found this entry in my old ledger, Vincent,"" Arthur said, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with suppressed fury. He slammed the open notebook down onto the glass, pointing a trembling finger at the entry from twenty years ago. ""Explain to me how a watch I personally engraved for my daughter ended up logged in your shop on the exact week she left my house.""
Vincent glanced down at the old book, his expression freezing for a fraction of a second before he smoothly recovered his composure. He leaned back against the cluttered shelves behind him, folding his arms across his chest with a cynical smile.
""Ah. That watch,"" Vincent said smoothly. ""A fine piece of gold. Heavy. Solid.""
""Don't play games with me, Vincent,"" Arthur snapped, his voice rising slightly. ""My daughter never sold that watch. She guarded it with her life. Someone took it from her luggage. Was it you? Did you buy stolen property from someone who ransacked her apartment?""
Vincent sighed, rolling his eyes as if he were dealing with an impatient child rather than an angry grandfather. ""Arthur, use your head. Do you really think I broke into an apartment? I’m a businessman, not a burglar.""
""Then who?"" Arthur demanded.
Vincent adjusted his glasses, looking around the dim shop as if checking to make sure no one else was listening. ""Look, Arthur, it was twenty years ago. A young man came in here late at night, pale, frantic, carrying a gold pocket watch that matched your exact engraving style. He claimed he found it dropped on the sidewalk near your house. He wanted fifty bucks for bus fare out of the city. I bought it legally, logged it, and three days later, a mysterious buyer came in and bought it back for cash, no questions asked.""
Arthur froze, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow confusion. ""A young man? What young man?""
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""How should I know his name?"" Vincent shrugged. ""He had dark hair, looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and wore a leather jacket that was three sizes too big. He said his name was... I don't know, Marcus? Mark? Something generic like that.""
Arthur stared at Vincent, his mind racing. Clara had never mentioned any man other than Leo’s father, who had left long after she was established in her own apartment. Who was this mysterious young man from twenty years ago, and why had he taken the watch only to have it vanish and somehow return to Clara years later?
