A few moments later, the gates shuddered to life, and Ian was waved through. He felt their eyes on the back of his head as he wandered up the manicured lawn and a flight of stairs, two marble columns on either side of him. When he pushed the door open, he was met with a blast of hot air and the smell of incense.While he waited for his eyes to adjust, Ian studied the reception area.
It had hardwood floors, a large desk where several uniformed staff members sat, and a small TV mounted to the wall, set on mute. After writing his name down on the visitor sheet, Ian was shown through another set of doors and into a courtyard, where many of the patients huddled in circles, whispering amongst themselves. A few orderlies, distinguished by their white scrubs, were scattered throughout the courtyard at various points, eyes wide and watchful.
A shiver raced up Ian’s spine as one of them gestured to a frail-looking man, bundled up in a large coat and a blanket, who sat hunched over in his wheelchair, wisps of thin, silver hair clinging to his face. He didn’t react when Ian took a seat on the bench beside him, overlooking a large oak tree.
“Mr. Rolland, I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, but I need your help. I don’t know if your son has mentioned me at all, but I’m Kelly Wilson’s son. My name is Ian Railings. I live in Falmouth.”
Clifford didn’t react or give any kind of acknowledgment.
“I know you were helping her investigate her ex, and I know you helped her find something good, but I haven’t had any luck finding out what it was, and your son has disappeared off the face of the planet.”
Silence stretched between them.
Ian sat up straighter and folded his hands in his lap. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but I feel like I owe it to my mom to uncover the truth. It’s been long enough, and if Eric was involved… I can’t let him hurt anyone else I love.”
Several long moments passed, and Clifford’s vacant stare remained fixed ahead.
Ian blew out a deep breath, stood up, and placed a hand on Clifford’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you ended up here. Let me know if there’s anything you ever need.”
Once he loosened his grip, Clifford’s hand darted out and gripped his. The man with a weathered face and glazed eyes looked up at Ian, and his stomach dipped in response. Heart hammering unsteadily against his chest, Ian inched closer and waited.
“I remember your mother,” Clifford whispered in a scratchy voice. “There’s a case file in my office. They’re all alphabetized.”
Ian’s heart missed a beat. “Are you sure? Where is your office?”
Clifford patted his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a yellowed business card. Ian took it from him and squinted, barely able to make out the address. “And you’re sure I’ll be able to find something there?”
Clifford nodded, and his hand went slack.
Ian waved a hand in front of his face, and Clifford turned away from him and looked back at the unmarked spot in the distance. Try as he might to get Clifford to acknowledge him again, the PI spent the rest of the visit with his arms by his side and a blank look on his face.
If it weren’t for the card burning a hole in his pocket, Ian would’ve convinced himself he’d dreamt the whole thing.
On his way outside, he felt several pairs of eyes follow him to the reception area and out the wrought iron gates. In the car, he fished his phone out of his pocket.
It rang a few times before Jeff picked up.
A few hours later, Ian was leaning against the hood of the car and staring up at the dark clouds gathered on the horizon when a silver sedan pulled up. It ambled to a stop next to his car, and Jonathan came out first, with Dean close on his heels.Jeff switched off the engine, pulled the cap low over his ears, and greeted Ian with a wave.
Ian frowned. “What are you doing here?”
Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m here to help.”
Ian’s chest tightened. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay down here, can I?”
Dean squared his shoulders and shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“Fine. Then, stay close, be careful, and do exactly as I say,” Ian told Dean, shaking his head. “We’re not exactly making any friends by doing this.”
In silence, the three of them formed a half-circle around Ian. When they crossed the street, Ian knocked on the front door of an old brick building and waited. The door buzzed open, and the four of them ducked in, moving as quietly as possible. On the second floor, Ian was about to knock when the glass door with Clifford’s name engraved into it creaked open.
Everything in the room was covered in sheets and a thin layer of dust.
“Look for any files labeled Wilson or Taylor. Or anything that looks related,” Ian instructed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Before long, he was knee-deep in files, with several scattered around him and impatience coursing through him.
He turned to Dean, and the words died on his lips.
