The door to the examination room opened, and an orderly wheeled in a second gurney.

Lying on it was Arthur Bennett, wrapped in three thick hospital blankets, his skin looking like gray parchment.

His face was hollow, his breathing shallow, but his eyes were sharp as he looked across the small room at me.

“Arthur,” I said, trying to sit up despite the nurse’s protesting hand.

“I’m alright, Sadie,” the old man rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “They didn’t break me.”

Wyatt stepped closer to the gurney, his face pale. “Arthur, what happened to you? We thought you were in a care home in Cleveland.”

Arthur let out a weak, bitter laugh that turned into a dry cough.

“That’s the story your parents made up to get me out of the way,” Arthur said, looking at Detective Harper. “They locked me in my own basement three weeks ago.”

“Why would they do that, Mr. Bennett?” Harper asked, her pen poised over her pad.

“Because I wouldn’t sign the property management transfer over to them,” Arthur said. “And because I knew what was hidden in the walls of that house.”