Chapter 3 - The Black Wax Seal
The wind rustled through the oak trees lining the driveway, carrying with it an unnatural chill that seemed entirely out of place for a warm September evening. Arthur stood up slowly from where he knelt beside Toby, his joints popping faintly in the sudden silence. His sharp eyes locked onto the black wax seal glistening dully under the porch light.
Officer Miller followed his gaze, stepping carefully over the grass. "Don't touch that, Mr. Vance. It could be contaminated. Let me secure the perimeter."
"There is no perimeter left to secure, Officer," Arthur said flatly, his voice devoid of fear, filled only with a weary resignation. "They’ve been inside the walls for years."
Arthur walked past the young cop with a steady, unyielding stride. He reached down, his fingers—steady and weathered—breaking the brittle black wax with a sharp crack that sounded like a breaking bone. He unfolded the heavy parchment paper inside, his eyes scanning the precise, block-lettered handwriting typed on manual keys.
Rex watched from the back of the police cruiser, his muffled laughter vibrating through the glass partition.
Arthur’s face hardened further, the color draining entirely from his cheeks. For a fleeting second, the seventy-seven-year-old man looked his age—vulnerable, battered by time and sorrow. But the weakness vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold, calculating brilliance.
"What does it say, Grandpa?" Toby asked, taking a tentative step forward from the porch, ignoring the police tape that now fluttered in the rising breeze.
Arthur folded the letter neatly and slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his navy blue suit. He turned to face the gathering crowd of suburban neighbors peeking through their windows and standing anxiously by their mailboxes.
"It says our dinner party is just beginning, Toby," Arthur replied softly, his voice carrying an unmistakable edge of absolute finality.
Officer Miller stepped up, frustration etched deeply across his youthful brow. "Mr. Vance, you are obstructing an investigation. You need to hand over that document immediately. That’s evidence."
"Evidence of what, Miller?" Arthur asked calmly, turning to face the officer with an intense, piercing stare. "Evidence that a man who died in a fiery car crash forty years ago just sent me a wedding invitation?"
The officer stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth opening slightly in disbelief. "A wedding? Whose wedding?"
"My funeral," Arthur replied without missing a beat.
Before Miller could process the chilling statement, a deafening screech of tires tore through the quiet neighborhood. Down the street, a sleek, matte-black sedan accelerated rapidly toward the cul-de-sac, its headlights blazing high and blindingly bright, cutting straight through the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser.
"Get down!" Officer Miller screamed, diving toward the grass.
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Arthur didn't flinch. He stood planted firmly on his lawn, watching the oncoming vehicle with cold anticipation, his hand slipping inside his jacket to grip the heavy steel handle of a vintage Colt revolver he hadn’t fired since the Nixon administration.
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