Clare’s voice came from above him.
Thin.
Shaking.
Barely there.
Arthur lifted his eyes.
His daughter stood at the top of the stairs.
She was barefoot.
Her hair was loose around her face.
One hand gripped the banister so hard her knuckles looked white even in the dim hallway light.
She looked at him as if she had aged ten years since dinner.
Behind her, the children’s bedroom door stood partly open.
A soft light glowed from inside.
Then a shadow moved across it.
Arthur felt the envelope against his chest like a block of ice.
Clare’s eyes dropped to the bulge under his jacket.
Her mouth trembled.
“Don’t come up,” she whispered, “unless you know what name was in that envelope.”
Arthur did know.
He also knew, in that instant, that whatever Christian had been hiding was not the whole danger.
The most dangerous person had not just entered the house.
The most dangerous person had been trusted inside it.
Arthur took another step.
“Where are Lily and Noah?” he asked.
Clare’s face crumpled, but she did not answer.
From inside the bedroom, Noah’s little voice whispered, “Grandpa?”
That was all it took.
Arthur moved.
Not fast like a young man.
Fast like an old man who has already buried too much.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, one hand on the rail, the other holding the envelope flat against his chest.
Clare reached toward him, not to stop him, but because her knees gave out.
Arthur caught her by the elbow.
She was shaking so badly he felt it through her sleeve.
“What happened?” he said.
She looked toward the bedroom door.
“He called,” she whispered.
“Christian?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Arthur did not understand until he saw the phone in her other hand.
Not her phone.
A second phone.
Christian’s.
The cracked screen glowed in her palm.
A voicemail was open.
The sender was not saved under a name.
Just a number.
Clare touched play before Arthur could ask.
A woman’s voice filled the hallway, calm and low.
“If Arthur comes, ask him what name the doctor gave him. If he knows, do exactly what I said.”
The recording ended.