Chapter 3 — Chapter 03

The morning brought a visitor.

He introduced himself as Reginald Voight, Ashworth's former business partner. Middle-aged, pink-cheeked, with the kind of smile that suggested he'd practiced it in front of a mirror until it looked sincere.

"Coe, is it? Margaret told me she'd hired someone to look into Arthur's death." He settled into the chair across from my desk like he owned it. "I thought I'd save you some time. Arthur was a good man, but he'd been unwell. The war, you understand. Nerves."

"The war ended two years before he died."

"Such things linger." Voight's smile didn't waver. "He became obsessed with the strangest notions. The earthquake, the fire — he was convinced there were secrets beneath the city. I told him it was grief. His father died in the fire, you know. 1906. Arthur was never quite the same after."

I thought of the journal in my coat pocket. *THEY'RE STILL HERE.*

"He have any enemies? Business disputes?"

"Nothing serious. Arthur was a careful man." Voight leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. "But between you and me, I worry about Margaret. She's been seeing things. Moving objects. Strange sounds. The strain of losing him so suddenly — I fear it's affected her mind."

"How long have you been courting her?"

The smile flickered. Just for a second.

"I'm a family friend, Mr. Coe. I'm concerned for her welfare."

"Uh-huh."

He left shortly after, still smiling, still smelling of bay rum. The same cologne I'd smelled in the Ashworth hallway the night before.

I wrote *VOIGHT* in my notebook and underlined it three times.

Then I wrote *LIAR* underneath and underlined that too.