Chapter 3
The afternoon air seemed to grow ten degrees colder as Clara’s accusation hung heavily between them. Arthur didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened perceptibly. He slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, empty, though the metallic clink that followed sounded suspiciously like a ring of heavy skeleton keys hitting the wooden slats of the pavilion floor.
"You're losing your mind, Clara," Arthur said, though his voice lacked its previous conviction. "The archives were sealed by the city council three weeks ago. Nobody has a key, least of all me."
"Then why did I just hear brass hitting wood?" Clara demanded, stepping forward and kicking the dust near his heavy work boots. Nothing was visible on the surface, but the hollow echo beneath the floorboards told a different story. The pavilion wasn't just a resting spot for parkgoers; it was built directly over the old intake valve for the municipal water system—a system that had mysteriously failed the exact night Arthur’s real estate firm acquired the surrounding acreage.
A few feet away, Leo and Tracey were crouched in the grass, ignoring the adults' escalating tension. Tracey was tracing a pattern in the dirt with a small stick, unearthing a fragment of grey plastic that didn't belong to any toy.
"Leo, look," she murmured, holding up the jagged piece. "It's got numbers on it."
Leo leaned in closer, his small brow furrowing in concentration. "It looks like the sticker on the back of my mom's filing cabinet at home. The one she keeps locked."
Clara heard the children’s voices and whipped her head around, panic flashing across her face. "Leo! Put that down right now! Drop it!"
Her sharp tone startled both children. Tracey dropped the plastic shard as if it were burning hot, and Leo scrambled backward onto his hands and knees, staring up at his mother with wide, uncomprehending eyes. He had never heard that specific tone of sheer terror in her voice before—it wasn't anger; it was pure, unadulterated dread.
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Arthur used the distraction to his advantage. He bent down with surprising speed, his thick fingers scooping up the grey plastic fragment from the grass before either child could grab it again. He slipped it into his palm and closed his fist tightly.
"Don't yell at them," Arthur muttered, straightening up with a groan of stiff joints. "You'll only make them ask more questions. And trust me, Clara, you don't want these kids asking the questions that are waiting for answers."
