Chapter 158

Chapter 158
[Claire's POV]

The attic stairs were narrow. Steep. Each step creaked under my weight as I climbed behind Samantha.

At the top, Samantha pushed open a small door. Dust billowed out, catching in the weak afternoon light from a single skylight. The air smelled old. Musty. Like paper that had been sitting untouched for years.

The attic was smaller than I expected. Cramped. The sloped ceiling pressed down on us, making the space feel even more suffocating. Boxes were stacked everywhere. Old furniture. Piles of books. A broken typewriter sat in one corner next to an ancient radio.

"You take the right side," Samantha said. "I'll start left."

I nodded. Moved to the nearest stack of boxes.

The first box held photographs. Faded. Curled at the edges. I flipped through them quickly—Benjamin as a younger man, smiling with people I didn't recognize. A woman. Two children. The family he'd abandoned ten years ago.

I set them aside. Moved to the next box.

More books. Old manuscripts. Typed pages with handwritten notes in the margins. I shook each one, checking for hidden papers. Nothing.

My chest felt tight. The attic was hot despite the cold March air outside. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and kept searching.

Minutes ticked by. Five. Seven. Ten.

Each empty box made my anxiety spike higher. What if the key wasn't here? What if this was another dead end? What if—

"Claire."

Samantha's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. Sharp. Urgent.

I spun around. She was crouched in the farthest corner of the attic, near the sloped wall. An old blanket lay crumpled at her feet. In front of her sat a wooden box, its surface thick with dust.

"Help me lift this," she said.

I hurried over. Together we grabbed the edges of the box. It was heavier than it looked. We lifted it carefully, setting it aside.

Underneath, pressed flat against the floorboards, was a piece of paper. Folded. Yellowed with age.

And beneath the paper—a glint of metal.

Samantha reached down. Picked up a small brass key. It fit perfectly in her palm.

Relief flooded through me so fast it made me dizzy. "You found it."

"Not yet." Samantha straightened, already turning toward the stairs. "Let's go open—"

"Wait." I grabbed her arm. "The paper."

She paused. Looked down at the folded sheet still lying on the floor. "Claire, we need to—"

"It might be important," I said. My instincts were screaming at me. Benjamin had hidden the key under this paper for a reason. "Just... let's look at it first. Please."

Samantha hesitated. Then nodded. She bent down and picked up the paper carefully, as if it might crumble at her touch.

We went downstairs. The living room had better light—a large window that faced west, catching the last of the afternoon sun. Samantha handed me the paper.

I unfolded it slowly. The edges were torn, ragged. Like someone had ripped it out of a journal. The paper was brittle. Yellow. But the handwriting was clear. Benjamin's handwriting, I realized. The same neat script I'd seen on the note in the nightstand.

Samantha moved closer, reading over my shoulder.

I started to read aloud. My voice came out quieter than I intended.

"Adrian, I know you from the beginning approached me to gain knowledge and experience in writing. Your purpose was obvious from the first time we met."

I paused. Swallowed. Kept reading.

"But I want you to know that over these years, I have always considered you a true friend. Not a tool. Not an audience. A friend."

My throat felt tight.

"You may have been searching for my 'writing secrets,' but the truth is, I don't have any special methods. I simply adapt things I observe in daily life, describe the world I see with my heart. That's all."

I had to stop again. The words were starting to blur.

"I want to thank you for your companionship all these years. Honestly, without you, during my loneliest and most desperate days, I probably wouldn't have made it. You saved me, Adrian. Even though you may have never realized it."

The page ended there. No signature. No date. Just those words, hanging in the air between us.

I stared at the paper. At Benjamin's careful handwriting. At the raw honesty in every line.

"He thought of Adrian as a real friend," I said quietly. My chest ached. "He trusted him. Valued him. And Adrian—"

I couldn't finish the sentence.

Samantha's expression was hard. Professional. But I saw something flicker in her eyes. Something that might have been sympathy.

"If Adrian has any humanity left," she said, "this could break through his defenses."

I looked at her. "You think so?"

"It's worth trying." She nodded at the paper in my hands. "That's genuine emotion. Genuine gratitude. If Adrian cared about Benjamin at all—even a little—this will hit him where it hurts."

I carefully folded the paper again. Slipped it into my jacket pocket. "We should give this to Marcus."

"We will." Samantha held up the brass key. "But first, let's see what's in that compartment."

The basement study felt colder than before. Or maybe it was just my nerves.

We crossed to the bookshelf. To the hidden compartment behind it. The old lock stared at us, dark and waiting.

I took the key from Samantha. My hands were shaking again. I pressed the key into the lock. Turned it slowly.

Click.

The sound was so quiet I almost missed it. But the compartment door swung open, revealing the space inside.

A book. That's all it was. A single book, lying in the sealed compartment like a secret waiting to be told.

I reached in. Pulled it out carefully.

It was heavy. Thick. The leather cover was worn and faded, the corners rubbed down from years of use. The binding was cracked. The pages yellowed.

A journal.

My heart hammered against my ribs. "This is it."

Samantha moved closer. "Are you sure?"

I opened the cover. The first page was dated March 15, ten years ago. Benjamin's handwriting filled the lines, cramped and urgent.

I can't keep doing this. The dreams are getting worse. Last night I saw her—the woman by the lake. She was screaming. I couldn't help her. I never can.

I flipped to another page. Then another. Each entry was darker than the last. Descriptions of nightmares. Of violence. Of death.

Dreams that had come true.

Just like mine.

"Claire?" Samantha's voice sounded far away. "What is it?"

I looked up at her. My throat was dry. "This... this could be everything we need."

She studied my face. "To prove what?"

"To understand why Benjamin became who he was." I gripped the journal tighter. "To understand what Adrian did to him. Maybe even—"

I stopped. Because the full weight of what we'd found was hitting me now.

This journal was evidence. Real evidence. Of Benjamin's gift. Of his isolation. Of the slow breakdown that had driven him to cut his phone lines, lock himself in his basement, push away everyone he loved.

And somewhere in these pages might be the key to understanding what Adrian had done. Why he'd killed his only friend.

Samantha and I looked at each other. The same realization passed between us.

We'd found it. The missing piece.

Now we just had to figure out how to use it.