Part 2: At my own Sunday barbecue, my son Trevor grabbed the steak off my plate and threw it into the grass, then told me to go gum on it at a retirement home because I was a worthless old woman.

The gallery opening was a triumph.

Both of my paintings sold within the first forty minutes—one to a local physician and the other to a retired judge who complimented the "melancholy strength" of the brushwork. David and I celebrated with a late supper of champagne and oysters at a rooftop bistro downtown, laughing under the starlit canopy until past eleven o'clock.

David walked me to the front entrance of The Willows just before midnight. He kissed me gently on the cheek, whispered goodnight, and waited until the secure glass doors locked behind me before waving and heading toward his car.

The lobby was quiet, illuminated only by the soft art-deco sconces along the wood-paneled walls. Marcus was at the front desk, completing his nightly log.

"Evening, Mrs. Vance," Marcus smiled, touching the brim of his cap. "Congratulations on the art show. Mr. Miller told me all about it."

"Thank you, Marcus. It was a wonderful night," I said, stepping into the elevator.

Upstairs, my apartment welcomed me with its familiar scent of dried lavender, lemon wax, and quiet serenity. I kicked off my kitten heels, hung my emerald velvet jacket in the hall closet, and poured myself a small glass of water.

I stood by the French doors of the balcony, looking out over the silhouette of the willow trees swaying under a pale harvest moon. The world was peaceful. My life was ordered. My conscience was clean.

At exactly 12:42 AM, the brass knocker on my front door struck the wood.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

I froze.

The sound was heavy, deliberate, echoing through the still apartment like a gunshot.

My heart seized. Visitors did not come to The Willows at midnight. The lobby doors were magnetically locked, and non-residents had to be buzzed in through Marcus at the front desk. Marcus would never send someone up without calling my landline first.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

"Who is it?" I called out, my voice tight as I walked slowly down the hallway, keeping my bare feet silent against the runner rug.

No answer came.

I reached the door. My hands were cold. I leaned forward and looked through the brass peephole.

The hallway outside was empty. The patterned carpet stretched out under the fluorescent lights toward the elevator bank, vacant and silent.

Then I looked down.

Slid half-way under the crack of my front door was a thick, legal-sized manila envelope. On the front, written in heavy black marker in an uneven, frantic scrawl, was a single sentence:

*HE DIDN'T DO IT ALONE. CHECK THE SAFE DEPOSIT BOX AT FIRST NATIONAL BEFORE THEY OPEN AT NINE.*

My hands trembled as I unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the envelope inside, and slammed the door shut, locking it twice.

I tore open the flap.

Inside was not a letter. It was a certified bank receipt, dated yesterday afternoon at 3:15 PM, bearing a signature that made the air leave my lungs in a strangled gasp.

It wasn't Trevor's signature.

It was Arthur's.

My husband Arthur, who had been dead and buried in Oakridge Memorial Cemetery for eight long years.

Beside the receipt lay a small brass safe-deposit key, cold as ice, stamped with the number: *742*.

And beneath the key lay a single, crisp photograph taken outside my building less than two hours ago: a picture of David, sitting in his car, speaking through an open window to a man in the shadows whose face was hidden beneath a dark hooded sweatshirt.