Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred

Marlowe

I used to believe in clean lines. Cause and effect. A crime, a motive, a culprit. If you looked hard enough, pulled back enough layers, the world made sense.

Now I know that was arrogance.

The Langford Museum doesn’t obey lines—it devours them.

Today I walked the same corridor three times and ended up in different places. Once at the east wing, once at the locked stairwell, once at a door I swear I’d never seen before. The handle was ice-cold, as though it belonged to another building entirely.

Inside, shelves. Files stacked in rows, their spines unmarked. I reached for one, opened it—blank pages. Dozens of them. The silence was so complete I could hear my pulse. Then, on the last page, a sketch. A face.

Vivienne’s.

Not charcoal, not pencil. Something heavier, almost scorched into the paper, as if drawn by heat. Her eyes were wrong—too wide, the irises like black wells. The caption beneath: She belongs to him.

I tore it out and folded it into my pocket, but when I checked later, it was gone. My pocket empty. My hands clean. As though I had only imagined it.

But I didn’t. I know I didn’t.

The thing that terrifies me isn’t the file, or the drawing. It’s that a part of me understands it. That when I read those words—She belongs to him—something in me whispered, Of course she does.

That’s not detective work. That’s contamination.

I’m keeping my gun closer now, though I can’t say who it’s meant for—an intruder, Langford’s ghost, or myself. I walk with the weight of it pressing against my side, a silent reminder that there’s still a line between the living and the dead, sanity and surrender.

But each night the line grows thinner.

And I don’t know how many more nights are left.