Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
Hallowell’s hand trembled, the revolver wavering. Arthur watched his eyes, the frantic darting movements. The man was terrified, but desperate. A dangerous combination.
“Put the gun down, Jonathan,” Arthur said, his voice calm, even. “You don’t want to add armed assault to your list of crimes.”
“It’s not… it’s not my crime!” Hallowell cried, his voice breaking. “He made me! Garrick!”
Hallowell lunged forward, not aiming to shoot, but swinging the revolver like a club. Arthur sidestepped, his old CID training kicking in. He grabbed Hallowell’s wrist, twisting sharply.
A grunt of pain, and the revolver clattered to the floor. Arthur kicked it away, sending it sliding under a heavy oak desk.
Hallowell fell to his knees, clutching his wrist, whimpering. “He’ll kill me! You don’t understand, he’ll kill us both!”
Arthur knelt, pressing a hand firmly on Hallowell’s shoulder. “Tell me everything. Now.”
“The accounts, the deeds… all Garrick’s doing,” Hallowell choked out, tears starting to well in his eyes. “He forced me to liquidate those assets. Said I’d disappear if I didn’t comply.”
“And Helena Krol?” Arthur pushed. “Her name on the accounts?”
“His idea! She was just a… a shell. Nobody would connect her to him. A spiritualist medium? Who would look twice?” Hallowell gasped, trying to catch his breath.
“What else?” Arthur demanded. “What did Garrick do?”
Hallowell looked up, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “He paid for you. Your rehab. The Maryland facility. Twelve hundred dollars. Last year.”
Arthur froze. “What are you talking about?”
“The anonymous benefactor,” Hallowell insisted, wiping his nose with his good hand. “Garrick. He told me it was… an investment. To keep you quiet. To keep you under his thumb.”
Arthur stared, the floor suddenly tilting beneath him. The entire time he had fought for his sobriety, for his second chance, Garrick had been pulling the strings. The anonymous donation, the kind words from the clinic director about his ‘guardian angel’—it had all been Garrick. A calculated move to ensure Arthur was indebted, controllable.
“He knew,” Arthur whispered, the betrayal a bitter acid in his throat. “He knew my weakness.”
“He knows everything,” Hallowell said, shrinking away. “He told me you wouldn’t last. He said he had you isolated. Trapped beyond recovery.”
Arthur pushed himself to his feet, the anger a cold, hard knot in his gut. Garrick hadn’t just framed him; he had engineered his life, his recovery, all for this moment. This wasn’t about control; it was about absolute, surgical manipulation.
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