Claire moved fast. She turned off her flashlight and grabbed my arm, pulling me toward a closet on the far side of the office. We squeezed inside, wedging ourselves between file boxes and winter coats that smelled like mothballs and expensive cologne.
The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
Through the crack in the closet door, I could see a flashlight beam sweep across the hallway. Whoever it was, they were moving methodically, checking each room.
Claire's breathing was loud in my ear. I put a hand on her shoulder, trying to signal her to stay calm. My heart was hammering so hard I thought whoever was out there might hear it.
The footsteps stopped outside the office door.
The beam of light cut through the darkness, moving across the desk, the filing cabinets, the window. I held my breath.
Then the plants started talking.
The fern by the door: Familiar, this person is familiar, been here before, many times before.
The orchid: Looking for something, always looking, never finding, frustrated, angry.
The pothos I'd watered, still sitting on the desk where I'd left it: Danger. Same smell. Same person. He came back.
Same person. The one who'd been here when Robert Hendricks died.
I tried to see through the crack in the door, but the angle was wrong. All I could make out was a dark shape, average height, wearing something bulky. A jacket maybe.
The person moved to the desk and started going through the papers Claire had been looking at. I heard the rustle of pages, the scrape of the chair being pulled out.
Then: "Damn it."
A man's voice. Deep, frustrated. He swept the papers onto the floor with one violent motion.
Beside me, Claire flinched. I squeezed her shoulder again.
The man moved to the filing cabinets, yanking drawers open. He wasn't being quiet anymore, wasn't trying to hide his presence. Metal screeched against metal as he pulled files out and threw them aside.
"Where the hell did he put it?" the man muttered. "Has to be here somewhere."
He was looking for something specific. The same thing we were looking for, maybe.
The pothos whispered: Envelope. Brown envelope. Hidden. He'll never find it. Wrong place. Wrong room.
I wanted to ask the plant where the right room was, but obviously I couldn't. Not with Claire pressed against my side and a potentially dangerous intruder ten feet away.
The man spent another five minutes tearing through the office. Then his phone rang, loud in the quiet house.
"Yeah," he answered. "I'm at the house now. No, nothing yet. The police already cleared out most of it." Pause. "I know it's important. I know what's at stake." Another pause, longer this time. "Fine. I'll check the bedroom next."
He ended the call and left the office. His footsteps moved down the hallway.
We waited in the closet, not moving, barely breathing. I counted to sixty in my head. Then sixty again.
Claire whispered, "Is he gone?"
"I don't know."
We listened. Heard drawers opening and closing in another room. The sound of things being moved around. He was searching the bedroom like he'd said.
"We need to get out of here," Claire breathed. "Now, while he's distracted."
She was right. But something the pothos said was nagging at me. Wrong place. Wrong room. The envelope wasn't in the office or the bedroom. So where?
"Wait," I whispered. "The plant said—" I stopped myself.
"The plant said what?"
Damn it. I'd done it again.
"Nothing. I just—I think whatever he's looking for isn't up here."
"How do you know that?"
"I don't. Just a hunch."
Claire stared at me in the darkness. I could barely see her face, but I felt her suspicion like a physical thing.
"You've had a lot of hunches today," she said slowly. "About my father not being alone when he died. About the plant needing water right this second. About what he was looking for."
"Claire—"
"What aren't you telling me?"
The sound of footsteps coming back down the hallway cut off my response. The man was returning.
Claire grabbed my hand. "Come on."
We slipped out of the closet and moved quickly toward the office door. The hallway was dark, the man's flashlight still visible in the master bedroom at the far end.
We made it to the stairs. Started down as quietly as we could. The third step creaked under my weight and I froze.
The flashlight beam swung toward the staircase.
"Hey!" the man shouted. "Stop!"
We ran.
Down the stairs, through the entryway, out the front door that the man had left hanging open. Claire sprinted toward her car. I followed, my lungs burning.
Behind us, the man burst out of the house. His flashlight caught us as we reached the cars.
"Claire Hendricks," he called out. Not a question. He knew who she was. "You need to stop digging into your father's past. For your own safety."
Claire yanked open her car door. "Who are you?"
"Someone trying to keep you alive." He was closer now, walking down the driveway toward us. "Your father made mistakes. Dangerous mistakes. People died because of what he did. If you keep asking questions, you'll be next."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning." He stopped at the edge of the lawn. In the ambient light from the street lamp, I could finally see him. Mid-fifties, gray hair, expensive suit under his jacket. He looked like a lawyer or a businessman. "Walk away, Claire. Forget about your mother. Forget about your father. Live your life."
"Why?" Claire's voice shook with anger. "So you can cover up whatever he did? So nobody has to face consequences?"
The man's expression was hard. "The people who faced consequences are already dead. Your mother. Your father. Others you don't even know about. This ends now, or it ends with you in the ground too."
He turned and walked toward a dark sedan parked on the corner. Got in. Drove away without looking back.
Claire stood frozen beside her car, watching the taillights disappear.
"That wasn't random," she said. "He was watching the house. Waiting to see if anyone would come."
"Yeah."
"He knew my name. Knew about my mother."
"Yeah."
She turned to me. "Marcus. What did you mean when you said the plant told you something?"
There it was. The question I'd been avoiding.
The grass beneath our feet whispered: Tell her. She needs to know. Can't do this alone. Tell her the truth.
I looked at Claire's face, pale in the streetlight, her eyes demanding answers.
"Get in your car," I said. "Follow me to my apartment. I'll explain everything."
"Promise?"
The word hit me like a punch. Promise. The same word my mother had whispered twelve years ago, the word preserved in white carnations in a shoebox in my closet.
"Yeah," I said. "I promise."
We got in our cars and drove through the empty streets. And with every mile, I tried to figure out how to explain to someone that I could hear the last thoughts of dying things, and that those thoughts were about to get us both killed.