Nearly ten o'clock at night. No. 79 Wisteria Street.
Byrne arrived at the gate of Old Anton's courtyard again, carrying two suitcases. This time, since he had the keys, he didn't need to ring the doorbell. He entered the courtyard and looked up. The light was on in the wooden house, indicating that Old Anton was still inside and would likely stay the night. It was natural for the old man to be uneasy on Byrne's first night, given what had happened to Tim.
Old Anton was sitting on the living room sofa, reading a book. Hearing the door, he adjusted his reading glasses and looked up. Confirming it was Byrne, he looked back down at his book and spoke.
"You're here. You'll stay in the bedroom on the left side of the second floor. The sheets are clean; you can use them directly."
"Got it."
Byrne responded and headed toward the stairs. After a few steps, he paused and asked with feigned concern, "It's late; are you still reading?"
"Old people sleep less," Anton replied without looking up. "Reading a bit before bed is better than lying down and tossing and turning."
Byrne smiled and said no more. Anton's words were likely only half-true; beyond the stated reason, he probably didn't fully trust his new tenant. After what had happened in this house, no one could be completely at ease.
Byrne took his luggage to the second floor and pushed open the bedroom door. It wasn't a large room, and the furnishings were simple: a solid wood bed by the window, a small nightstand, and an old-fashioned wardrobe in the corner. The walls were clean and bare. In the corner sat two stacked cardboard boxes.
According to Old Anton, these contained the items Tim had left behind. Byrne knew that the clues he needed were likely hidden inside, but now was not the time to look. Old Anton was still reading downstairs and could come up at any moment. It was safer to wait until the old man went to sleep.
Byrne set his suitcases by the bed and began to unpack. He moved efficiently, putting his clothes and Tax Collector uniform into the wardrobe. He placed the communicator and the psychic suppression cap on the nightstand for easy access. He left the Manual for Basic Psychic Application by his pillow, intending to flip through it before sleeping. Finally, he carefully stowed the large sums of money he had acquired from Keith in a metal box with a combination lock.
Fifteen minutes later, Byrne finished unpacking. He let out a long breath, sat on the edge of the bed, and turned off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness.
Byrne didn't sleep. Instead, he remained seated and channeled his psychic energy into thin threads, letting them spread outward. This was a technique he had recently learned from the manual. By turning psychic energy into threads, he could expand his perception range without creating large fluctuations that were easily detected.
The threads radiated from Byrne as the origin, gradually covering the entire courtyard—the current limit of his range. Downstairs, Old Anton remained on the sofa, showing no sign of moving. Byrne withdrew his energy, leaned against the headboard, and waited patiently. He knew that in moments like this, one could not afford to be restless.
An hour passed. Finally, Old Anton moved. He closed his book slowly, as if afraid of disturbing something. He stood up, steadying himself on the armrest to ease the stiffness of sitting for so long. Eventually, he made his way to the second floor.
Anton didn't go straight to his room. He walked to Byrne's door, and seeing no light, he finally felt at ease and returned to his own bedroom. Byrne still didn't move. He waited another ten minutes until his psychic perception confirmed that Anton was in bed and truly asleep.
Only then did Byrne turn on his lamp, walk to the corner, and open the top box.
The contents were sparse but neatly arranged; Old Anton had clearly put care into packing them. On top were several folded freight uniforms, similar to the one in the photo. Beneath the clothes were various daily items. They were ordinary and held little interest for Byrne, who scanned them quickly and moved on.
Finally, only a notebook remained at the bottom of the box.
Byrne flipped through it. Most of the entries were Tim's work logs: routes driven, cargo hauled, weather conditions. Byrne scanned them rapidly, his brow furrowing as he progressed. The early entries were mundane and normal. However, a month before Tim's disappearance, the records became intermittent and the handwriting turned into a disorganized scrawl.
"March 17th. Sandstorm... Route normal..."
"March 19th. This batch of goods is strange... The employer's eyes aren't right..."
The handwriting paused there, with a small ink blot where the pen had rested, as if the writer's hand had been shaking. Most of the subsequent content was crossed out, leaving only cryptic phrases like "Cannot ask" and "Cannot look."
March 19th was the exact day Tim had taken the private job Selena mentioned. Byrne pondered the words. That private job was definitely the source of the trouble.
He turned to the next page. The writing here was even blurlier—mostly scattered words rather than full sentences.
Purple mist... Whispers...
Midnight... Old alley...
Byrne squinted to decipher the characters. To him, these words looked as if they had been squeezed out from between clenched teeth; every stroke was distorted almost to the point of deformity, the ink depth uneven. Through the script, Byrne could sense Tim's panic and fear.
His gaze moved to the bottom of the page. There, only one legible sentence remained.
"I'm being watched... I have to hide the thing. Old Anton's storage room... No one will think to look there..."