The stool fell away again. He dropped. Pain lanced down his back and shoulders. He hung there a long time, longer than before. Eventually, the man’s arms lifted him again until his feet felt the stool slide under his feet. He felt smaller, as if a part of what he was had been torn away. The man gave him time to collect what little was left of his wits. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father sitting barefoot on the bottom of the stairs, gazing sadly at his son. Gibson blinked, and the apparition was gone, but he knew where he was. He was home.

“Oh,” the man said. “Welcome home. I wasn’t sure if you’d recognize it. It’s changed in the last decade. I liked it better with the red paint.”

“Fuck you,” Gibson tried to scream. It came out as no more than a whisper.

“I enjoyed meeting your father.” The man took out a knife and unfolded a long, unforgiving blade. “We had a good talk in this room. Two men coming to an understanding.” The man smiled faintly at the memory. “But to answer your question, I will not let you go if you tell me what I need to know. Not under any circumstance. Your life is not something you can barter for. I know that is a hard thing to hear, but honesty is best. However, I will tell you what I am willing to offer you.”

“Go to hell.”

“Upstairs, there’s a couple. Linda and Mark Tompkins. Linda paints the delightful pictures you see here. At the moment, what they know is that a masked, distraught man broke into their home and bound them. A man dressed as you are dressed. The man was sobbing. Hysterical. He said he was sorry. That he didn’t want to hurt them. He told them that this had been his house once. When the Tompkinses are discovered tomorrow, they will identify you as their assailant. The police will conclude, reasonably, that in a fit of despair following your divorce and the loss of your job and family, you broke into your childhood home and followed in your father’s footsteps.”

“That’s what you’re offering me?”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t answer?”

“If you don’t answer, I will push the chair away. When you are dead I will go upstairs and I will butcher Linda and Mark Tompkins. I will make the man watch his wife die. I can make it last a long time.”

Gibson heard kinetic excitement in the man’s voice. He hid it well, but Gibson read joy on his face, or whatever passed for joy in someone like that.

“Why? They’ve done nothing.”