The following morning began with an uncomfortable stillness. It was not the peaceful kind of silence that came after a long night, but the sort that made a person feel as though something had happened while they were asleep. Blackwood noticed it the moment he stepped outside his apartment. The street looked ordinary. Cars moved slowly through the morning traffic, people hurried toward work, and somewhere in the distance a shopkeeper was lifting the metal shutter of his store. Everything appeared normal, yet Blackwood could not shake the feeling that normality itself had become suspicious. He stood beside his car for several seconds, looking across the street at the buildings opposite him. He remembered Daniel standing outside the café the previous afternoon, watching the four investigators before disappearing without explanation. Blackwood had spent much of the night convincing himself that perhaps he had imagined the figure, that exhaustion had distorted what he saw. But he knew himself too well to believe that. Blackwood did not imagine people. He noticed them.
His phone rang before he could start the engine. It was Elena. "You saw him too, didn't you?" she asked without saying hello. Blackwood paused. "Daniel?" "Yes." He leaned against the car. "I thought perhaps I was mistaken." Elena gave a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "So did I." For several seconds neither spoke. Then Elena said, "Marcus called me at six this morning." Blackwood straightened. "Why?" "Because he went back to the library last night." Blackwood's expression changed. "And?" "He found something." Ten minutes later, they agreed to meet at the old records building near the centre of the city. Blackwood ended the call and stared once more across the street. There was nobody there now. Still, he had the strange feeling that somebody had been waiting for him to leave.
The records building was almost empty when Blackwood arrived. Elena was already there, standing beside Marcus, who held a thin brown folder in his hands. Bishops arrived moments later, still wearing the same dark coat he had worn the previous day. Marcus placed the folder on the table. "I found this by accident," he said. "Or at least, I thought I did." Blackwood opened it carefully. Inside were architectural records from decades earlier. Most concerned old properties that had been renovated or demolished, but one address immediately caught his attention. 11 Wilson Avenue. Blackwood turned the page. "This building existed long before the hotel?" Marcus nodded. "Much longer. And here's the strange part." He pointed toward an old architectural plan. "The building wasn't originally designed as a residence." Elena leaned closer. "What was it?" Marcus looked at her. "An observation facility." Bishops frowned. "Observation facility for what?" Marcus shook his head. "That's the problem. The records don't say."
Blackwood studied the plans carefully. There were several rooms that did not correspond with the current structure. A narrow corridor appeared to run behind the walls, connecting several floors. Some of the spaces had been sealed during renovations. One particular section caught his attention. It sat directly beside the Palms Hotel. "This wall," he said. Marcus nodded. "That's what I noticed. According to the original plans, there was once a passage between the two buildings." Elena looked up sharply. "A passage?" "Yes. It was sealed decades ago." Blackwood's thoughts immediately returned to Magdalene's room, the hidden compartment, the hollow walls and the strange sense that the building itself was connected to her. "Then the walls aren't just hiding compartments," he said. "They're hiding a route."
Nobody answered.
Blackwood closed the folder.
"Take me there."
They returned to the Palms Hotel shortly after nine. Ms. Red was in the lobby when they entered, but something about her was different. She looked tired. Not physically tired, but emotionally exhausted, as though she had spent the entire night arguing with herself about whether to tell them something. When she saw the folder in Blackwood's hand, her expression changed.
"You found it," she whispered.
Blackwood stopped.
"Found what?"
Ms. Red immediately realized what she had said. Her eyes shifted toward the staircase.
Elena stepped closer. "Ms. Red, what do you know about the passage between this hotel and 11 Wilson Avenue?"
She didn't answer.
"Ms. Red?"
Finally, she sighed.
"There was a passage."
Bishops stared at her. "You knew?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I thought it had been sealed."
Blackwood watched her carefully. "Thought?"
She looked toward him.
"I haven't been down there in years."
"Who has?"
Ms. Red's expression became unreadable.
"I don't know."
Blackwood knew immediately that she was hiding something, but this time he didn't accuse her. Instead, he asked a different question.
"Did Mr. Simpsons know about it?"
Ms. Red looked down.
"Yes."
The answer landed heavily.
"How?"
"He painted it."
Marcus frowned. "Painted what?"
"The passage."
Elena stepped forward.
"Show us."
Ms. Red hesitated before walking toward a narrow door behind the reception desk. She unlocked it and led them down a staircase they had never noticed before. The air became colder as they descended. The staircase ended at a corridor that looked older than the rest of the hotel. The walls were covered in faded paint. Several doors had been sealed shut.
Blackwood ran his hand along the wall.
"This wasn't in the hotel plans."
Marcus smiled faintly.
"Because it's older than the hotel plans."
They continued until they reached a large metal door. Ms. Red stopped.
"This is where it ends."
Blackwood examined the door.
There was no handle.
No lock.
Nothing.
Then he noticed something carved into the metal.
A small symbol.
The same symbol from Magdalene's room.
The same symbol from the drawings.
The same symbol connected to the mysterious marks they had found in 11 Wilson Avenue.
Elena stared at it.
"Blackwood…"
"I see it."
Marcus stepped closer.
"This wasn't sealed to keep people out."
Bishops looked at him.
"Then why?"
Marcus looked at the door.
"To keep something in."
Before anyone could respond, they heard a noise behind them.
A quiet metallic sound.
Everyone turned.
The corridor was empty.
Blackwood immediately moved toward the staircase.
"Stay here."
He reached the top.
Nothing.
Only the empty lobby.
But on the reception desk lay something that had not been there before.
A small envelope.
His name was written across the front.
ADRIANBLACKWOOD.
He picked it up carefully.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed the Palms Hotel.
The photograph appeared to have been taken from across the street.
Blackwood stared at it.
Then Elena noticed something.
"Look at the date."
Blackwood turned the photograph over.
There was a date written on the back.
It was from the previous afternoon.
The exact time they had been sitting in the café.
The photograph showed all four of them through the window.
Someone had been watching them.
Someone had been close enough to photograph them.
And beneath the date, written in the same handwriting they had seen before, were six words:
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT SIMPSONS ALONE.
Blackwood slowly lowered the photograph.
Nobody spoke.
Because they had spent weeks wondering where Mr. Simpsons had gone.
Now, for the first time, they had a different question.
If Simpsons was still alive, why was someone so desperate to make them believe he was dead?