The floorboard near the window didn't look special. That was the point. It was old pine, slightly warped with age, with one nail head darker than the others. It blended into the room the same way Howard Laskey had blended into the neighborhood—quiet, harmless, and easy to overlook until something went wrong.
Lucas knelt with a flat tool and worked carefully, prying just enough to lift the edge without splitting the wood. Brian stood behind him, his jaw tight and eyes fixed on the window like he expected the visitor to come strolling back up the sidewalk and wave. Isaiah stayed near the front door, scanning the street through the blinds.
Harley didn't move until Lucas finally lifted the board. Then she stepped closer.
Under the floorboard was a shallow cavity. Inside sat a small tin—a peppermint candy tin, dented at the corner and wrapped in a plastic bag to keep out the damp. Lucas opened it with gloved fingers. It wasn't money. It wasn't a weapon. It was a stack of envelopes. All were unsealed. All were addressed to the same place: Grayhaven Police Department — Major Crimes Unit.
Brian swallowed hard. "He was writing to us."
Harley's eyes flicked over the handwriting. Some of the letters were old, yellowing at the edges. Some were newer, the ink darker. It was the record of a man keeping a record, one Sunday at a time, while deciding how long he could pretend he wasn't afraid.
Lucas pulled out the top envelope, dated last week. He slid it open and began reading silently, then handed it to Harley without comment. Harley read, and she felt the room tighten around the words.
I don't know who they are.
They come every Sunday.
They say they're here to help with my bills and my medicine.
They know my old work injuries. They know my name.
I let them in because I didn't want to be alone with the fear.
They bring me peppermint tea.
They tell me I'm safe.
I don't think I am.
Harley's throat tightened slightly. It wasn't from sympathy. It was from anger. Because it wasn't just a crime. It was someone using comfort as a leash.
Brian read over her shoulder. "They drugged him," he muttered.
Lucas nodded, scanning the other envelopes. "There's more." He pulled out another letter from three months ago.
They asked me about the docks.
About a night in 2003.
About who came through the gates after midnight.
I told them I didn't remember.
They smiled like I'd made a joke.
Isaiah's eyes sharpened. Harley looked up at him. A night in 2003. That year again. The visitor wasn't just tormenting an old man. They were extracting something. Information. Memory. A name. A location. Something only Howard could give.
Brian's voice dropped. "So this wasn't random. He was targeted."
Harley nodded once. "Yes."
Lucas held up the last envelope. The ink was newer, but the handwriting was shakier. It was dated yesterday.
They said I don't need to be scared anymore.
They said this is the last Sunday.
If I don't write again, it means I finally got brave too late.
Silence sat heavy. Alex, who had been quiet until now, spoke from near the doorway. "We need to know what they were asking him." Isaiah nodded. "And why."
__
Back in the kitchen, the peppermint smell felt less innocent now. Brian opened the cabinet and found a jar of dried peppermint leaves. It wasn't factory-sealed; it had been transferred into a glass container. Harley inspected it. There was a fine powder clinging to the inside rim—too pale to be plant matter.
Lucas's voice went low. "Adulterated."
Harley nodded. "And not recently." Which meant Howard had been dosed repeatedly. Sedated weekly. Kept docile. Not to kill quickly, but to control slowly.
Isaiah's jaw tightened. "That's... patient."
Harley's eyes narrowed. "It's practiced."
Alex pulled up the doorbell footage again on his tablet. The visitor's gait was calm, rehearsed, and unhurried. "Anyone else see them?" Brian asked.
Marjorie Vance had followed the officers back inside and now stood near the doorway, wringing her hands. She spoke shakily. "Sometimes... I thought it was different."
Lucas turned. "Different?"
Marjorie nodded. "The coat was the same. The hat was the same. But the height... the way they walked... some weeks it looked wrong."
Harley felt it click into place. Not one visitor. A routine. A costume. A role someone could wear.
Isaiah's voice was quiet. "Multiple people playing one ghost."
Marjorie started crying. "I thought he had family."
Harley's gaze stayed steady. "He had predators."
__
Alex's fingers flew over his tablet. "I can check traffic cams near the street around noon the past few Sundays."
Brian frowned. "That's a lot of footage."
Alex looked up. "It's a lot of time. That's what I'm good at."
Harley watched him work, noticing the quiet competence in his posture. Within minutes, Alex pulled three Sundays of footage from a traffic camera at Marsh Road and Sycamore. Each week, a different vehicle approached the area and parked near the same corner—not directly in front of Howard's house, but always a block away, always outside direct view.
Week one: white sedan.
Week two: delivery van.
Week three: silver SUV.
Different cars. Same behavior. Same timing.
Lucas leaned in. "They're rotating vehicles. Avoiding pattern detection."
Brian's voice went cold. "That's organized."
Isaiah nodded slowly. "And someone local would've noticed three different cars if they were suspicious. But they weren't suspicious."
Harley pointed at the footage. "Because they looked like normal Sunday traffic. The visitor costume wasn't just hiding identity. It was hiding intent."
__
They didn't wait for next Sunday. They made a Sunday. Brian asked Captain Black for authorization, and Black didn't hesitate. By 3 PM, the unit had set up a quiet surveillance net on Marsh Road. No uniforms. Unmarked vehicles. A marked patrol was parked two streets over for "visibility," just enough to push a watcher to adjust if they were paying attention.
Harley sat in Isaiah's car with binoculars. Isaiah drove. Alex monitored the cams from a laptop in the back seat, hot-spotting off his phone. Lucas and Brian sat across the street in another vehicle.
They waited.
At 4:19 PM, a car turned onto Marsh Road. It wasn't one of the previous vehicles; it was a dark hatchback. It parked a block away. The driver didn't get out immediately. They sat for a full minute. Then the door opened.
A figure stepped out. Long coat. Hat low. Bag in hand. The Sunday Visitor. Even on a Tuesday.
Harley's voice was low. "That's them."
Isaiah didn't move. "Let them commit," he murmured.
The figure walked toward Howard's house like they'd done it a hundred times. They didn't look at the cameras. They didn't look around nervously. They belonged. That confidence was the most terrifying part. They reached the porch. Key in hand. They unlocked the door.
Lucas's voice crackled through the comms. "They have a key."
Brian: "Move?"
Isaiah waited a beat. Then: "Now."
__
Brian and Lucas were first out of the car. Isaiah followed with Harley half a step behind. The visitor turned at the sound of footsteps and froze. For the first time, the costume failed. Not because the hat slipped, but because the body under it stiffened in surprise.
Harley saw it immediately. Too young. Not the slow gait of an older caretaker. This was performance.
Brian snapped, "Hands where I can see them!"
The visitor hesitated, then bolted. Not toward the street, but toward the side yard. Isaiah cut left. Harley cut right. The figure hit the fence and scrambled—but Harley caught their coat and yanked them back hard.
The hat flew off. Hair spilled out. It was a teenager. Maybe nineteen, with wide terrified eyes and shaking hands. Not a mastermind. A tool.
Brian cuffed him fast while Isaiah secured the bag. Lucas opened it. Inside were peppermint packets, syringes, and a small notebook.
Harley's voice was steady. "Who sent you?"
The teen's face crumpled. "I didn't— I didn't hurt him!"
Brian's voice was sharp. "Then why are you here with syringes?"
The teen started crying, shaking so hard Harley thought he might collapse. "I was just supposed to—check if he was dead," he sobbed.
Silence slammed into the yard. Harley's eyes hardened. "You came to confirm."
The teen nodded frantically. "They told me it was the last stop."
Isaiah's voice dropped. "Who is 'they'?"
The teen looked up at him with terror so pure it felt almost childlike. "I don't know their name," he whispered. "I swear. They just call themselves... the Sunday people."
Brian's jaw tightened. Harley didn't blink. Because she knew what this was now. Not a single killer. A network. A routine. A pattern that could be passed hand to hand like a habit.
__
Inside the teen's notebook were addresses. Not just Howard's. Three others. All elderly. All living alone. All with notes beside them.
Needs meds.
Needs money help.
Talks too much.
Knows docks.
Harley stared at the words. Isaiah's jaw clenched. This wasn't just murder. It was predation disguised as care.
Brian exhaled. "We just caught the errand boy."
Lucas nodded. "But we got the map."
They did. And Howard Laskey's letters made sense now. He hadn't been waiting for rescue. He'd been waiting for someone to finally see the pattern.
Harley looked back at Howard's house one last time before they left. An old man had spent months being visited by ghosts in costumes. And he had died with enough clarity left to hide a message under a floorboard. Not because he believed anyone would come. Because he couldn't accept being erased quietly.