CHAPTER 45: THE FIRST RECRUIT
"A vault," Trevor repeated. "Like a safe? Or like a whole room?"
"A whole room." Logan kept his voice low, conscious of the sleeping house around them. "Built by Elias Woodstone in the 1890s. Hidden beneath the east wing addition. Never been opened since his death."
"How do you know about it?"
Because I watched four seasons of a television show about this house.
"Research. The architectural history. Some old documents I found in the library."
Trevor drifted closer, his form solidifying slightly as his interest sharpened. The laptop behind him continued scrolling market data, its blue light casting strange shadows.
"And you want to open it."
"I want to confirm it exists first. Then open it."
"Why?"
Logan had prepared multiple answers. Historical significance. Financial value. Curiosity. But he found himself telling Trevor the truth — or at least a piece of it.
"Because this house has secrets. Some of them are hurting people. Alberta doesn't know who killed her. Hetty is terrified of what Sam's investigation might find. Sam is digging into history that might have dangerous answers." He met Trevor's eyes. "The vault might have documents. Evidence. Something that helps close the loops instead of leaving them open."
Trevor was quiet for a long moment.
"Does Sam know?"
First question. Not "what's in it for me." Not "how do we split the treasure." He asked about ethics first.
Logan had expected easy Trevor — the show's version, the finance bro who would have jumped at the chance for hidden treasure. But this Trevor was different. Changed. The body in the lake had been found because of Logan's interference, and the man who'd processed that discovery wasn't the same as the one who would have discovered it later.
"Sam doesn't know yet," Logan said carefully. "I want to confirm the vault exists before I involve her. If it's empty, or if I'm wrong about the location, no point getting her hopes up."
"But you will tell her."
"Eventually."
"Eventually." Trevor's voice was flat. "Bro. Last time someone at this house kept secrets about what's underneath, it was my body. Floating in that lake for twenty years. And the people who knew about it? Didn't say anything. Didn't tell anyone."
The Farnsbys. They saw Trevor die. They never reported it.
"I'm not keeping secrets about bodies," Logan said.
"You're keeping secrets about hidden rooms full of potentially important stuff. Same energy." Trevor crossed his arms — a gesture that looked absurd on a ghost in a polo shirt, but carried genuine weight. "I'm not cool with hidden things anymore. I spent twenty years hidden. I know what that does."
Logan exhaled slowly.
This is the butterfly. This is what I did.
"Okay. New proposal. You're in from the beginning. You know every step. No surprises. No hidden agendas." He paused. "And Sam gets told as soon as we confirm the vault exists."
"As soon as."
"Within forty-eight hours of confirmation."
Trevor considered this. "What do you need me for?"
"Telekinesis. The vault will have locks — physical mechanisms that ghosts can't touch. You can interact with the living world. You can turn tumblers, flip switches, move things I can't reach."
"And if we find something valuable?"
"Depends what it is. If it's family history, it stays with the family. If it's evidence about Alberta..." Logan trailed off.
"It goes to Alberta."
"Right."
"And if it's actual treasure? Gold coins? Bearer bonds? Piles of cash that's been sitting there for a hundred years?"
Logan hadn't actually thought about that. The show had focused on the historical significance — documents, photographs, secrets. But Elias Woodstone had been rich. Paranoid. The kind of man who might have squirreled away more than paperwork.
"If it's treasure," Logan said slowly, "it belongs to the house. To Sam and Jay. They inherited the property. They inherited what's in it."
"Even if they don't know it exists?"
"Especially then. We'd be finding it for them, not stealing it from them."
Trevor studied him for a long moment. His expression was unreadable — the face of a man who'd spent his living years reading markets and trading on information, who knew when someone was selling him something and when someone was telling the truth.
"One more condition," Trevor said finally.
"Name it."
"If we find anything that belongs to the ghosts — to me, to Alberta, to anyone who died here — it stays with us. Not Sam. Not Jay. Us."
Logan nodded. "Agreed."
Trevor extended a fist.
The gesture was automatic for him — a lifetime of closed deals sealed with this motion. But he's a ghost. And I'm alive.
Logan raised his fist anyway. It passed through Trevor's — a moment of nothing touching nothing, of two people making a promise across the gap between living and dead.
They both paused. Then they both laughed.
"That was stupid," Trevor said.
"Little bit."
"We should have done the handshake thing. Made it feel real."
The handshake thing. The Grab. Thirty GE for eight seconds of physical contact.
"Maybe next time," Logan said. "For now, the ghost fist-bump counts."
"Deal." Trevor grinned — the first genuine smile Logan had seen from him since the body discovery. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow night. I need to recruit one more person first."
"Who?"
"Hetty."
Trevor's grin faded. "Hetty. The woman whose son probably killed Alberta. The woman who's been freaking out about Sam's investigation for weeks. That Hetty."
"That Hetty."
"And you think she'll help us open a vault that might contain evidence about her family's crimes?"
"I think," Logan said carefully, "that Hetty is tired of carrying secrets. And I think she might be ready to put some of them down."
"That's optimistic."
"It's a hypothesis."
"It's going to blow up in your face."
"Probably." Logan smiled. "But it's the only way through. We need her. She knows the house better than anyone. And if we find something that incriminates Thomas..."
"She might actually want us to."
"Exactly."
Trevor shook his head, but there was something like admiration in his expression. "You're playing a long game, aren't you? All these pieces moving around. Sam with the podcast. Me with the vault. Hetty with the secrets. You're setting up something."
I'm trying to survive a story I know the ending of. I'm trying to change it before it changes me.
"I'm trying to help," Logan said. "That's all."
"Sure." Trevor didn't sound convinced. "Hey, one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"Isaac is watching you. Has been for a while. Whatever you're doing, whatever you're planning — he's going to notice."
"I know."
"And you're just... okay with that?"
Logan thought about Isaac's parchment, his careful documentation, his declared surveillance. Thought about the moment in the library when they'd shaken hands across the gap between adversary and ally.
"Isaac and I have an understanding," he said. "He's going to keep watching. I'm going to keep doing what I need to do. And eventually, we'll either trust each other or we won't."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Trevor drifted back toward the laptop, where market news continued scrolling in the dark.
"Tomorrow night then. Hetty recruitment. I'll be ready."
"Thanks, Trevor."
"Don't thank me yet." He paused at the laptop, his hand passing through the keyboard. "You know what I keep thinking about? Those twenty years I was in the lake. All that time, the house was right there. The ghosts were living their unlives. Sam and Jay were probably babies when I died, and by the time they showed up, I'd been underwater for two decades." He looked at Logan. "The vault's probably been sitting there since 1897. A hundred and twenty-five years. Whatever's inside, it's been waiting a long time to be found."
"Does that bother you?"
"No. It makes me patient." Trevor's smile was thin. "I've learned to be patient. That's another thing twenty years underwater teaches you."
He dissolved through the floor, sinking toward whatever ghostly space he occupied when he wasn't visible.
Logan stood in the dark living room, listening to the house settle around him. The laptop's glow cast shadows across the furniture. Outside, the first hints of dawn were beginning to touch the sky.
One recruit down. One to go.
He made his way back to his room, mentally rehearsing the conversation he'd need to have with Hetty. The approach. The leverage. The delicate balance between truth and strategy.
He was so focused on the planning that he almost missed her.
Hetty was standing outside his door. Arms folded. Expression unreadable.
"I know what's beneath the east wing," she said. "I assume you do too."
Logan stopped.
"I was going to come find you," he said.
"I know." Hetty's voice was cool, controlled, the voice of a woman who'd spent a century maintaining composure in impossible situations. "I've been watching you, Logan. Not as carefully as Isaac, perhaps, but carefully enough. You've been researching. Planning. Building alliances."
"You've been listening."
"I've been existing in this house for a hundred and thirty years. I know when someone is moving pieces on a board." She stepped closer. "The question is: what game are you playing? And more importantly — what do you want with my husband's vault?"
Logan met her eyes. The hallway was dark. The house was silent. And somewhere beneath the east wing, something old and hidden was waiting to be found.
"I want answers," he said. "And I think you do too."
Hetty's expression flickered — just for a moment, a crack in the Victorian composure that had sustained her through death and beyond.
"Come with me," she said. "We have much to discuss."