Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
The cold clarity brought by the new information sharpened Arthur’s focus. He needed to warn Clara. Garrick had framed him, bought his silence, and used Helena. Clara was the last vulnerable link.
He moved towards his sister’s suburban residence, cautiously, keeping to the shadows of the quiet streets. The lights were on inside her house, a soft glow against the encroaching night. A knot tightened in his gut.
He approached her back porch, pushing aside a hanging fern. The kitchen window offered a clear view inside. His heart sank.
Three police officers sat at her kitchen table, their caps placed neatly beside them. Colonel Garrick stood by the window, his back to Arthur, his voice a low rumble.
Clara, her shoulders slumped, sat across from Garrick, her hands clasped tightly. She looked worn, her eyes red-rimmed.
As if sensing his presence, Clara turned, her gaze meeting his through the glass. Her face crumpled. She pushed herself up from the table and walked out onto the porch, clutching a thermos.
“Arthur,” she whispered, her voice choked. She held out the thermos. “Coffee. It’s hot.”
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. Her hand was shaking. “Clara, what’s going on?”
She looked away, tears streaking her face. “They told me everything. Colonel Garrick…”
She paused, taking a shaky breath. “He showed me your records. From the war.”
Arthur’s stomach clenched. His combat records. The blackouts.
“He said you had… violent psychotic episodes,” Clara continued, her voice barely audible. “That you hurt people. That you can’t control it. He had the doctor’s reports, the court-martial documents. They said you’re dangerous, Arthur.”
She looked at him then, her eyes full of a heartbroken fear he hadn’t seen since their parents’ funeral. “He said you killed her. That you probably don’t even remember doing it.”
“Clara, it’s a lie,” Arthur insisted, his voice raw. “He’s manipulating you. This is all a setup.”
“He said you’re having another relapse,” she sobbed, backing away, clutching her chest. “He said you could hurt me.”
The kitchen door opened, and Garrick stepped out, his face etched with a mock sympathy. “Arthur. Don’t make this any harder for her.”
Behind Garrick, the officers moved, weapons drawn. Clara’s betrayal, however coerced, stung more than any bullet. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes, planted there by Garrick’s insidious lies. He couldn’t risk her safety now.
He turned and bolted, leaving the thermos on the porch railing, the hot coffee a symbol of the warmth he’d just lost.
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