Chapter 3 of Echoes In The Walls

The next morning, Jett didn’t come downstairs.

Maria knocked on his door at 8:30. If he wasn’t down by then, she brought him his coffee — black, no cream or sugar. She thought about the first time she offered him a cup, asking him if he would like something with it.

“I take my coffee like I take my men — strong and black.”

“Jett”, Sierra had said, chastising. But there was a slight smile.

Maria knew she had missed something, but smiled anyway. She found out later it was a joke, something he used to do often.

She knocked a second time, but there was still no response.

She tried again at 8:45. Still nothing.

At 9:00, she called Kenneth, who trudged up the stairs, knocked once like a battering ram, and opened the door without ceremony.

The room was empty.

The bed was made. Sloppily, but made. The window was open and a breeze stirred the curtains. Jett’s boots were gone from beside the door, along with the old denim jacket he wore when he wanted to feel like someone younger than sixty-four.

“You check the west wing,” Kenneth told Maria. “I’ll check the grounds.”

_____

The west wing of the mansion was rarely used. It had been Sierra’s domain during the final months of their marriage — her yoga room, her meditation nook, her writing desk that had never produced anything but unmailed thank-you cards. After Sierra had left, Jett had sealed it off like a tomb. No one went in. Not Maria. Not Avery. Not even Kenneth.

But Jett had.

He was there now, crouched in the hall, staring at the base of a closed door like it might speak.

Maria stepped away without making a sound and returned to the kitchen. At least she knew he was alive and okay. Well, maybe not okay, but . . .

_____

The room wasn’t labeled. It had no name on the blueprint, no special features. Just a spare guest room they never finished furnishing. Sierra had wanted to make it a music room. Jett refused. Said he didn’t want to hear her playing amateur chords on a baby grand just to prove she “understood” him.

It was petty. Jett knew that now. But knowing hadn’t made it easier to live with.

The air inside was thick with dust and disuse. A mattress on the floor, still wrapped in plastic. A bookshelf with nothing on it but an empty picture frame. A water stain bloomed in one corner of the ceiling like a cloud that had gotten stuck on its way to a storm.

Jett looked around. The window was half-open. That wasn’t right.

He crossed the room and gently pulled it shut. Then, as he turned back, something caught his eye.

On the floor near the closet door was a coffee cup.

White ceramic. One of the good ones — the ones Maria never let him touch because she claimed he left rings on everything. He did, but that wasn’t the point.

He crouched beside it.

The cup was dusty. But the inside wasn’t.

Still a hint of coffee.

He stood slowly, heart knocking against his ribs. The closet was closed, but not fully — the door hung just barely ajar. He pulled it open.

Inside: a plain closet, maybe five feet wide, lined with empty hangers, except for one t-shirt.

It hung on the far left side. He pulled it out. Faded black, with cracked red letters across the front:

Snake Choir
World Tour

Their biggest year.

His biggest year.

He reached out and touched the sleeve. The fabric was soft, worn thin by time or use.

But he hadn’t seen this shirt in decades.

His mouth went dry.

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

He turned fast — too fast — and stumbled backward into the closet, knocking hangers to the floor in a sharp, chaotic clatter.

He lay there, awkwardly, eyes scanning the room, spooked.

No one was there.

Just the room, just the stillness, just the sun leaking through the window’s grime.

He lay there, breathing hard, until he was sure his knees would be steady. Then he stood, picking up the shirt and holding it to his chest.

_____

Avery stared up the stairs, listening, watching, her laptop bag still slung over her shoulder. Maria had let her in, quietly.

“He in the, uh, the west wing,” she said with her Hispanic showing.

“Does he ever go in there?” Avery asked.

“Today, he does.”

Avery nodded, saying nothing more. She went to the office to get set up.

_____

Jett sat in the forgotten room, the Snake Choir shirt now folded on his lap.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there.

He didn’t remember coming in.

He didn’t remember whether the cup had been warm when he found it — or whether he’d imagined that it was.

He tried to think of the last time he’d worn this shirt. Was it the Houston show? Or Madrid? Did they even go to Madrid?

The edges of memory blurred. When he tried to pin one down, it dissolved into another — one year slipping into the next, one wife’s laughter turning into another’s, one stage becoming another mirror.

What if someone was living here?

Not squatting. Not some criminal.

Someone he knew.

Someone who was supposed to be gone.

What if that was the music he heard? Not just the music he heard in his dreams — but in the walls?

He stood.

Took the shirt. Took the cup. Left the room and locked the door behind him.

_____

That afternoon, he sat at the kitchen table with the shirt spread in front of him like an artifact.

Avery watched him carefully. Her second tea sat untouched.

“You said this was in the west wing?” she asked.

“Closet.”

“And you’re sure it’s not yours?”

He stared at the shirt. “I thought it was. But . . . but I don’t know anymore.”

“You’re thinking someone left it there?”

He didn’t answer.

“Jett,” she said gently, “this house is too well-guarded for someone to live here unnoticed. You have Kenneth. Cameras. Lock codes. Me. Maria. You’d know.”

“Would I?”

She hesitated. Would he? “Yes.”

“Then why did I find this?”

She had no answer. He was in a loop. He found the shirt in a closet in his house. And he was asking why he found it.

_____

He picked up the shirt and held it to his face. Inhaled.

It smelled like nothing.

He dropped it.

“I think someone’s here,” he said quietly. “And they know who I am.”

Avery watched him for a long moment. “I think you need rest.” It wasn’t a secret he hadn’t been sleeping much.

And he didn’t disagree.

_____

That night, he slept with the shirt on a chair beside his bed. Like a dog waiting for his master . . . who wasn’t coming home.

_____

(c) Secret Agent Man
info@secretagentman.net