Chapter 10 - The Nursery Closet
Arthur stood abruptly, knocking his metal chair backward onto the linoleum floor with a deafening crash as the haunting words of the note echoed in his mind.
Detective Miller reacted instantly, lunging across the table and grabbing Arthur by the shoulder, shoving him back down into his seat with authoritative force.
"Sit down, Vance! You aren't going anywhere until your legal representation arrives!" Miller barked, his face inches from Arthur’s.
"You don't understand!" Arthur yelled, struggling against the detective’s iron grip as panic surged through his veins.
"The note... it wasn't just a threat. There is someone locked inside the nursery closet at my house right now. If your men didn't clear that room thoroughly, she’s going to die!"
Miller paused, studying Arthur’s wild, panicked expression for a long, agonizing moment before pulling out his department radio and keying the mic.
"Unit Four, this is Miller. Go back to the Vance residence. Check the secondary nursery closet on the second floor. Do not touch anything until forensics has cleared the threshold," Miller commanded sharply.
He released Arthur’s shoulder and sank back into his own chair, watching him with a mixture of suspicion and lingering unease.
"If this is another one of your diversions, Vance, you are looking at obstruction charges that will stick for the rest of your natural life," Miller warned.
Arthur remained silent, staring fixedly at the scuffed metal surface of the table as agonizing minutes ticked away in suffocating slow motion.
The hum of the fluorescent light overhead seemed to grow louder, matching the frantic rhythm of his own pulse.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
The radio on Miller’s belt crackled to life, emitting a burst of static that made both men tense up instantly.
"Unit Four to dispatch. We are inside the nursery. The closet door is sealed from the outside with a heavy-duty deadbolt," the tinny voice of the officer reported over the radio channel.
Miller raised his eyebrows, glancing sideways at Arthur, who let out a sharp, ragged breath of vindication.
"Proceed to breach," Miller ordered into his mic.
The radio hissed with silence for a few seconds before the officer’s voice returned, strained and laced with profound shock.
"Sir... you need to get out here. You need to see this for yourself."
Miller frowned, standing up and motioning for Arthur to follow him out of the interrogation room toward the precinct garage.
They piled into an unmarked cruiser, speeding through the dark, rain-slicked streets back toward the historic Victorian house.
When they pulled up to the curb, the flashing red and blue lights of three police cruisers cast eerie shadows across the damp pavement.
Arthur scrambled out of the car before it had even fully come to a stop, sprinting up the front steps and pushing past the lingering uniform guards.
He raced up the stairs to the second-floor nursery, his chest burning as he burst through the white-paneled door.
Inside, two officers stood frozen in front of a walk-in closet with its heavy door blown open by a tactical breaching charge.
Arthur pushed between them and stared into the dark, cramped interior of the closet.
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Sitting on the floor, bound and gagged with duct tape, was a frail, middle-aged woman with long dark hair—wearing an exact replica of Clara’s cream-colored silk blouse.
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