It was.
He stepped off the porch.
The main house was dark, as it should have been at this late hour. The children would be asleep in their beds.
He barely made a sound as he walked toward the garden. For a man his size, he could be light on his feet when he needed to be. The air smelled of salt and felt heavy against his skin.
He followed the path through the garden. He wondered what Helen would think when she came. He thought she’d be impressed. He hoped so. Talia deserved it. She’d worked hard.
He rounded the back of the house. He stumbled over a thick root, but managed to stay upright.
There, in front of him, was the cellar door.
The scorch marks made a terrible amount of sense now.
His throat clicked as he swallowed. He could, Linus knew, turn around right now and forget about all of this. He could go back to his bed, and for the next six days, keep a professional distance and do what he’d been sent here to do. Then he would board the ferry for the last time, and a train would be waiting to take him home. The sunlight would fade behind dark clouds, and eventually, it would start to rain. He knew that life. That was the life for a man like Linus. It was dreary and gray, but it was the life he’d led for many, many years. This last month, this bright flash of color, would be nothing but a memory.
He took the key from his pocket.
“It probably won’t even fit the lock,” he muttered. “It’s most likely been changed.”
It hadn’t. The key slid into the rusted padlock perfectly.
He turned it.
The lock popped open with the smallest of sounds.
It fell to the weeds.
“Last chance,” he told himself. “Last chance to forget all this foolishness.”
The door was heavier than he expected, so much so that he could barely lift it. He grunted as he pulled it open, arms straining at the weight. It took him a moment to figure out why. Though the outside of the cellar doors were wooden, the inside was a sheet of thick metal, as if it’d been reinforced.
And in the starlight, he could see shallow grooves carved into the metal.
He raised his hand and pressed his fingers against the grooves. There were five of them, close together. As if someone with small hands had scraped them from the inside.
That caused a cold chill to run down Linus’s spine.
Before him, disappearing into a thick darkness, were a set of stone stairs. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust, wishing he’d remembered to bring a flashlight. Or he could wait for daylight.
He entered the cellar.
Linus kept a hand pressed against the wall to keep his balance. The wall was made of smooth stone. He counted each step he took. He was at thirteen when the stairs ended. He couldn’t see a thing. He felt along the wall, hoping to find a light switch. He bumped into something, a bright snarl of pain rolling up his shin and into his thigh. He grimaced and felt for—
There.
A switch.
He flicked it up.
A single bulb flared to life in the middle of the room.
Linus blinked against the dull light.
The cellar was smaller than he expected. The room in the guest house where he’d spent the last three weeks was bigger, though not by much. The walls and ceiling were made of stone, and almost every inch of them were covered in what appeared to be soot. He looked down at his hands and saw they were black. He rubbed his fingers together, and the soot fell away to the floor.
He’d bumped his knee into a desk set against the wall near the light switch. It had been partially burned, the wood blackened and cracked. There was a twin bed, the metal frame broken. There was no mattress, though Linus supposed that made sense. It would be too easy to burn. Instead, there were thick tarps that Linus expected to be flame retardant.
And that was it.
That was everything in the cellar.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”
Something in the corner caught his eyes. The single bulb in the room wasn’t strong, and there were more shadows than not. He approached the far wall, and as he got closer, he felt his knees turn to jelly.
Tick marks.
Tick marks scratched into the wall.
Four lines in a row. Crossed with a fifth.
“Five,” he said. “Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.”
He stopped counting when he reached sixty. It was too much for him to handle. He thought they were meant to keep track of days, and the idea caused his heart to ache.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. The unfairness of it all threatened to overwhelm him.
DICOMY hadn’t been lying.
The file had been true.
“I haven’t been down here in years,” a voice said from behind him.
Linus closed his eyes. “No. I don’t expect you have.”
“I thought you seemed a little … off,” Arthur said quietly. “After you returned to us from the post office, something had changed. I didn’t know what, but it had. I chose to believe you when you said you were tired, but then at dinner, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“I tried to hide it,” Linus admitted. “It doesn’t appear I did a very good job of it.”
Arthur chuckled, though it sounded sad. “You’re much more expressive than you think. It’s one of the things I— No matter. That’s neither here nor there. For the moment, at least.”
Linus curled his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “So it’s true, then?”
“What is?”
“What I read. In the file DICOMY sent to me.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never read my file. For all I know, it’s full of half-truths and outright lies. Or, perhaps, everything is correct. One can never tell with DICOMY.”
Linus turned around slowly as he opened his eyes.
Arthur stood at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed for bed, meaning he wore his shorts and a thin T-shirt. Irrationally, Linus wanted to offer his coat. It was much too cold for Arthur to be out in what he was wearing. He didn’t even have socks on. Or shoes. His feet looked strangely vulnerable.
He was watching Linus, though there didn’t appear to be any anger in his gaze. If anything, he looked slightly stricken, though Linus couldn’t be sure.
“He gave you a key,” Arthur said. It wasn’t a question.
Linus nodded. “There was a key, yes. I— Wait. What do you mean he?”
“Charles Werner.”
“How do you—” He stopped and took a deep breath.
But I made this house a home for those I had, and in preparation in case more came. Your predecessor, he … changed. He was lovely, and I thought he was going to stay. But then he changed.
What happened to him?
He was promoted. First to Supervision. And then, last I heard, to Extremely Upper Management. Just like he always wanted. I learned a very harsh lesson then: Sometimes wishes should never be spoken aloud as they won’t come true.
“I’m sorry,” Linus said rather helplessly.
“For what?”
Linus wasn’t sure exactly. “I don’t—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he intended.”
“Oh, I think I do.” Arthur stepped away from the bottom of the stairs. He traced a finger over the burnt surface of the desk. “I suspect he read something in your reports that caused him concern. This was his way of intervening.”