Chapter 10
The attic was stifling, smelling of aged paper, dust, and forgotten memories. Arthur pulled the hanging string of the bare bulb, illuminating rows of cardboard moving boxes stacked neatly beneath the slanted wooden rafters. He knelt before a box labeled Clara's Personal Files, his hands trembling slightly as he sliced through the packing tape with a utility knife.
He had avoided this box since the funeral, unable to face the personal journals and mementos she had left behind. But after the encounter with the man in the black sedan, Arthur knew he was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. Whoever was targeting them had a connection to their past—something Clara had known, or something she had inadvertently triggered.
He flipped through old photo albums, greeting cards from relatives, and medical bills from Clara's final months. Near the bottom of the box rested a heavy manila envelope secured with a red string. Arthur pulled it out, untied the string, and tipped it over.
A stack of old polaroids and a handwritten letter slid out onto his knees.
The handwriting was Clara’s, neat and flowing. The date at the top was written three years prior, before Maya was even in middle school, during the time they lived in their previous apartment across town.
“Arthur, if you’re reading this, it means the man has returned. His name is Julian Vance—not the deputy, his estranged older brother who lost custody of his own children years ago. He believes Leo is his grandson through a bizarre delusion involving a medical trial I supervised before our marriage. He has been watching us, leaving items to establish a psychological foothold. If anything happens to me, protect our children at all costs.”
Arthur stared at the words, the room spinning slightly around him. Julian Vance. The deputy’s own brother. That explained why local investigations had been sluggish, why cruisers seemed to arrive just a fraction too late, and why the intruder moved through the neighborhood with the confidence of someone who understood local blind spots.
May you like
He looked down at the polaroids. Each photo showed their old apartment building, captured from an alleyway perspective. And in the corner of every single frame stood the tall figure in the dark wool coat, holding the grey stuffed rabbit toy.
The conspiracy wasn't an external haunting; it was a deeply personal vendetta rooted in a broken man's psychotic obsession. And the police department had a wolf guarding the hen house.
