If you ever touch my wife again, I will make sure you vanish from every medical registry in North America before sunrise.
The sun was just beginning to paint the sky when Arthur’s sleek black sedan pulled up the long driveway, hours earlier than his usual return. I scrambled, shoving Evelyn’s file back into its yellow folder and hiding it under the couch cushions just as his key turned in the lock.
Julian, still lurking in the perimeter woods, must have seen the car. A frantic rustling outside confirmed his flight.
Arthur stepped inside, neat and composed in his surgical scrubs, carrying a takeaway coffee. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, his smile perfectly serene. “Slept well?”
I managed a tight nod.
He took a sip of his coffee. “Did you hear anything unusual last night? There was a rather agitated man spotted near the gates.”
I shook my head, my mouth suddenly dry.
He simply hummed, walking to the windows and peering out into the dense woods. I saw him pull out his phone, a quick, silent call. Within minutes, a black SUV, one of Arthur’s private security vehicles, rumbled down the driveway and parked near the outer gate.
I watched through the window as Arthur strode purposefully towards the gate. Two of his burly security guards emerged from the SUV, scanning the tree line. Moments later, they cornered Julian, dragging him from the brush. Julian struggled, but the guards were efficient, silencing him quickly.
Arthur stood before Julian, his posture radiating quiet authority. I couldn’t hear their words, but I saw Julian’s shoulders slump in defeat. Arthur made another call, and the SUV’s rear door opened. They pushed Julian inside.
Arthur returned to the house, his expression untroubled. “A nuisance, but handled,” he said, handing me a printout.
It was a police file, stamped with a city seal. “Julian Pryce,” the header read. Underneath, a detailed history of “violent outbursts,” “stalking behavior,” and a recent entry about “harassment of pregnant women.” There was even a section on “mechanical sabotage records” at a previous automotive job, citing financial motives.
“He’s a disturbed individual, Nora,” Arthur explained, his voice low with feigned concern. “He was paid by some corporate rivals of mine to harass us, to get to my research. He’s been committed to a secure psychiatric wing downtown. You’re safe now.”
I clutched the fake police file, the flimsy paper feeling heavy in my hands. Julian, the desperate brother, now a psychotic stalker. Arthur’s story was too neat, too perfectly aligned with my supposed hallucinations. But the yellow folder hidden under the couch told a different story, one of a terrified man trying to expose a killer, not harm me.
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