Chapter 2 - The Phantom FootstepsClara noticed the sudden rigidity in Mark’s posture. Her blood turned to ice.
— Mark? What is it? Is his body... is he down there? — she asked, her voice trembling, losing its carefully practiced veneer of shock.
Mark didn’t answer immediately. He backed away from the edge, his face completely drained of color, his eyes wide with a terror that defied logic.
— He... he’s not there, Clara, — Mark choked out, his voice a ragged whisper.
— What do you mean he’s not there?! We saw him go over! The chair went down! — Clara rushed to the edge, shoving past him.
She looked down. The twisted wheelchair lay alone on the damp boulders. No body. No blood trail. Just the roaring water and the empty, ruined seat.
A sudden gust of wind swept up from the canyon, carrying with it a sound that froze the marrow in their bones.
Slow, deliberate footsteps crunching on gravel.
They both spun around.
Standing ten paces away, blocking the only narrow path back to the parking lot, was a figure draped in a dark, hooded hiking cloak. The hood was pulled low, casting a deep shadow over the face. But beneath that shadow, a pair of cold, piercing eyes locked directly onto Clara and Mark.
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In the pale, trembling hand of the figure was a heavy, old-fashioned brass key—the exact key to Arthur’s private study and his personal safety deposit box.
— Looking for someone? — a voice rasped from beneath the hood. It was low, gravelly, and unmistakably Arthur’s.
