Right where his house stood on the grid, there was a red X. Surrounding the X were several handwritten notes in the margins, scrawled in an elegant, spidery cursive.
Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. That was his exact schedule from three years ago. He scrolled down to the second page. It was a collection of grainy, black-and-white photographs taken from the treeline across the street from his driveway. They showed him scraping ice off his windshield, checking his mail, and laughing on the phone.
Arthur froze. Behind him, the floorboards of his old house gave a slow, familiar creak.