Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the BrownstoneThe townhouse on East Seventy-Sixth Street was a fortress of mahogany, limestone, and untouchable silence.
When Arthur returned home at seven o'clock, the hallway lights were already dimmed to a sepulchral glow. Carmen Reyes met him at the double oak doors, her apron starched so stiffly it rustled like dry parchment.
"Mr. Mitchell," Carmen said, her dark eyes sharp with decades of maternal vigilance. "Your nephews called. Both of them. Mr. Richard wants to know if the board meeting on Thursday is still happening. Mr. Thomas is asking about the signature on the trust fund disbursement."
Arthur wheeled past her without taking off his coat. "Tell them I’m dead."
Carmen didn't flinch. She had heard variations of that sentence every week for three years. "Dinner is in the small study, sir. Light broth. And... there is a package."
Arthur stopped his wheels dead on the Persian runner. "A package? Who delivered it?"
"A courier in a high-visibility vest. He left it on the stoop with strict instructions that it was to be handed directly to you, sir."
Arthur’s heart gave an ugly, heavy thud against his ribs. He turned the wheelchair around, his tires hissing on the hardwood. "Bring it to the library. Now."
The library smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco that Arthur no longer smoked, and lemon oil. Carmen placed a heavy, shoe-box-sized parcel wrapped in brown butcher paper on the mahogany desk. It was sealed with thick bands of red industrial packing tape.
"Leave us, Carmen," Arthur commanded.
"Sir, your medication—"
"I said leave us."
When the heavy mahogany door clicked shut, Arthur rolled up to the desk. His hands, still trembling from the cold in the park, picked up a silver letter opener from Clara’s old desk set. He sliced through the tape.
Inside was not a bomb, nor a ransom note, nor a legal document from his greedy bloodline.
It was a shoe.
A single, small, scuffed red-and-white children's sneaker, size twelve, with the left velcro strap missing. Tucked inside the toe was a Polaroid photograph taken less than an hour ago.
The photo showed the back of Arthur’s own townhouse, specifically the basement coal chute that opened onto the alleyway behind the kitchen. Standing right beside the iron grate was Maya, holding a modern digital tablet straight up in the air.
On the tablet screen, illuminated by the cold blue light of the LCD, was a message typed in massive block letters:
OPEN THE GATE, GENERAL. THE WOLVES ARE IN THE BASEMENT.
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Before Arthur could process the warning, a sharp, metallic clink echoed from deep within the house—the distinct sound of the service elevator cables shifting in the shaft behind the brick wall.
Someone was inside the restricted lower level. Someone who hadn't come through the front door.
