Chapter 2: B: The Silence of the Walls

👉 Previous decision: You chose to plaster over the wall hole immediately and pretend to accept his memory-loss diagnosis.

I found a tube of spackling paste in the back of my closet, left by the previous tenant. My hands trembled as I worked.

The hole disappeared under a layer of white. I smoothed it with a finger, forcing myself to believe in a fragile peace.

Julian’s footsteps retreated down the hallway a few minutes later. I exhaled, a long, shaky breath.

The next morning, a process server knocked on my door. He handed me official documents.

“Emergency conservatorship papers,” the man mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “Filed by Julian Hensley. Citing mental incapacity.”

The papers listed Arthur Phelan as a key witness. They referenced “backdated medical forms” I had never seen.

My remaining royalty rights, the last flicker of my life’s work, were frozen. My studio door had a new lock, installed from the outside.

Two men in white coats arrived before sunset. They spoke in hushed, professional tones.

“We’re here to ensure your well-being, Ms. Hensley,” one said, his voice clipped.

“It’s a private facility,” the other added, gesturing down the hallway. “For observation.”

I stood there, watching my few possessions in the cramped room. The freshly plastered wall felt like a tombstone.