"A nine-year gap," Chen murmured under her breath, her pen hovering over the paper. "Why call today of all days?"
"Birthdays have a way of digging up old roots," Vance said softly, shifting the patrol car out of park and clicking on his headlights. The yellow beams cut through the gloom of 12th Avenue as he pulled out onto the slick, gleaming asphalt. "Or maybe nine years was just how long it took her to build up the courage to dial the number."
As the windshield wipers swept rhythmically across the glass in steady, rhythmic arcs, Vance felt a familiar, aching tug in his chest. He had a daughter of his own—a nineteen-year-old sophomore studying marine biology at a university in Oregon. He spoke to her every Sunday afternoon without fail, and the mere thought of nine years of total, unbroken silence between a parent and child felt to him like a slow, agonizing hemorrhage of the soul.
"Let me take Elm Street," Vance said, adjusting his side mirror. "Let me go see if Arthur's home."
The building at 412 Elm Street was a weathered four-story brick walk-up constructed in the late 1920s, featuring chipped yellow paint along its entryway trim and a long, narrow hallway that smelled perpetually of boiled cabbage, damp wool coats, and radiator steam.
Marcus Vance and Sarah Chen walked up the squeaking wooden stairs, their heavy leather duty boots landing with measured steps while their utility belts clinked softly in the narrow corridor. The hanging lightbulbs overhead were dim and flickering, encased in frosted glass globe fixtures covered in decades of dust and grime.
When they reached the landing on the third floor, they paused outside Apartment 3B. The door was crafted from thick, dark oak, its brass number '3' slightly crooked and missing its companion letter 'B', which had left a tiny, pale silhouette on the stained wood.
Chen looked over at Vance. He gave her a short, reassuring nod. She stepped forward and raised her hand, knocking three times—firm, measured raps that echoed hollowly down the quiet hallway.
Inside Apartment 3B, Arthur Pendelton started, his head snapping toward the hallway.
He had been sitting in the gathering darkness for over an hour. The red candle on his blueberry muffin had long since burned down to a lifeless stub, leaving a tiny crater of dried red wax cooled atop the pastry. He hadn't heard a knock on his door in so many years that for a long moment, he assumed the sound was merely the old steam pipes knocking inside the plaster walls.
When the knocking repeated—three distinct, heavier thuds—Arthur slowly pushed himself up from his armchair. His knees cracked softly in the quiet room. He straightened his cardigan, walked across the worn pattern of his living room carpet, and stood behind the heavy oak door, his breath caught in his throat.
"Who is it?" he called out, his voice raspy and dry from disuse.
"Mr. Pendelton? Mr. Arthur Pendelton?" a woman's calm, authoritative voice replied through the thick wood. "This is Officer Chen with the Oakridge Police Department. We're here to conduct a welfare check, sir."
Arthur frozen. His hand hovered an inch above the cold brass deadbolt. Police officers? His mind raced, searching for any possible infraction. He hadn't broken any laws in his entire sixty-eight years. He lived quietly, paid his rent on the first morning of every month by postal money order, and barely spoke three words to the neighbors on his floor.
"Is... is something wrong?" Arthur asked, unlocking the deadbolt with a sharp metallic click.
He pulled the heavy door open a few inches, leaving the brass security chain engaged.
Standing in the dim corridor were two police officers in rain-dusted dark navy jackets. The older officer, a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind, graying eyes, offered a soft, respectful smile.
"Good evening, Mr. Pendelton," Officer Vance said, keeping his hands visible at his waist and his posture relaxed. "I hope we didn't startle you, sir. Mind if we step inside for just a moment to talk?"
Arthur looked at them, his eyes wide with bewilderment. He unhooked the security chain and opened the door fully, stepping back into his small, shadow-draped living room. "I... I suppose so. Did something happen? Is there an emergency in the building?"
"No, sir, nothing like that," Officer Chen said gently as she stepped across the threshold, taking in the neat, solitary space—the single armchair placed by the window, the unlit birthday muffin resting on the square oak table, and the old framed black-and-white photographs lining the dark wood bookshelf. "We received a call from our dispatch center a little while ago. Someone requested we stop by to see how you were doing."
Arthur frowned, his thick gray eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "A welfare check? Who would do that? I don't have anyone... I mean, I live entirely alone."