Chapter 6 - The Watcher
Adam instinctively lunged backward into the shadow of Locker 44, his back hitting the cold corrugated wall. His breath came fast and ragged. He looked around wildly for a weapon, his fingers wrapping around the heavy steel padlock he had just removed from the hasp.
The footsteps stopped outside the open door of the unit.
A silhouette blocked the yellow hallway light. It was a man in a sodden trench coat, tall, with broad shoulders that filled the narrow doorway. When the man lowered his umbrella, the dim fluorescent bulb illuminated his features.
It was Arthur.
The funeral director had discarded his polished, subservient facade. His posture was no longer bowed; his eyes were cold, sharp, and assessing. He looked down at the scattered papers, the photographs of Adam, and the open green box, without the slightest hint of surprise.
""You weren't supposed to find this until Monday, Mr. Vance,"" Arthur said. His voice was no longer soft and mournful. It was flat, carrying the clinical detachment of a surgeon delivering a diagnosis. ""Clara’s timetable was always somewhat erratic near the end. Pain makes people sentimental.""
Adam raised the padlock, his knuckles white. ""Who the hell are you? What was Clara doing with my medical records? Why does this coroner's report say I died?""
Arthur sighed, taking a silver cigarette case from his pocket and snapping it open. He didn't light one, merely turning a cigarette between his fingers. ""You're asking the wrong questions, Adam. You shouldn't be asking why the paper says you died. You should be asking whose memories you’ve been living in for the last seven years.""
Adam felt a cold spike of panic pierce his skull. ""I remember everything! I remember meeting her in college. I remember building our house. I remember the day Lucas was born!""
""You remember what the trauma protocol gave you,"" Arthur replied smoothly, taking one step forward. ""Clara didn't just lose her husband in that car crash seven years ago, Adam. She lost her sanity. And the man who paid for you—the man who owns this facility, the man who owns the firm you run, the man who fathered Lucas—spent millions to ensure that his wife had a husband to wake up to when she couldn't accept reality.""
""That's a lie,"" Adam roared, lunging forward.
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Arthur didn't flinch. From beneath his trench coat, he pulled a compact semi-automatic pistol, aiming it directly at Adam’s chest with casual ease.
""The real Adam Vance died on I-95,"" Arthur whispered. ""And now that Clara is buried, the contract is expired. Where is the boy?""
