The House That Never Welcomed Us

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Arga did not budge an inch when Lestari told him to leave.

He remained planted on the porch, caught between the unyielding drizzle and the half-latched front door. Water droplets streamed from the ends of his hair, dampening the collar of his shirt. For the first time since setting foot here, he wore the expression of someone who had lost all sense of direction.

Lestari crossed her arms, her gaze cold.

"If your intimidation is finished, kindly take your leave."

"I am not intimidating you," Arga murmured.

"Then what would you call this?"

"Asking you to buy time."

"Two decades is an inexcusable delay."

Arga absorbed the sharp articulation without a word of defense. In the past, he had always possessed a straightforward argument. During their school years, Arga could parse any problem in a calm, measured tone—a composure that once convinced Lestari reality was never as terrifying as it seemed. Yet now, that very composure only stirred a sudden, reckless impulse within her to break something.

"Five properties along this stretch have changed ownership," Arga said. "Pak Seno's residence, the Yani family home, the building at the intersection, the vacant structure near the riverbank, and this house."

"This property has not changed hands."

"Because your mother continually rejected their offers."

Lestari looked at him intently. "Mother never mentioned any acquisition proposals."

"Bima didn't execute it directly. He used intermediaries."

That name instantly sent a cold shiver creeping up the back of her neck.

"Does Bima know I'm back?"

"Bima consolidates all information regarding the internal dynamics of Wanaraya."

"Including your visit here?"

Arga fell silent for a moment. "In all probability, he already knows."

The statement didn't just serve as a warning flag; it was an implicit admission that Arga himself was entangled in his family’s surveillance network.

Lestari pushed the door open wider. "Come inside."

Arga surveyed the dim glow of the living room. "Are you certain about this?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

He stepped inside with measured steps, as though the place were no longer a childhood playground, but a crime scene waiting to be cataloged. Lestari closed the door and slid the deadbolt home twice.

On the table, her father’s framed portrait still lay face up. Arga’s gaze locked onto the image. A micro-shift crossed his features—a change so subtle it could easily have eluded casual observation.

Yet, Lestari caught it.

"You recognize the date inscribed behind that frame?"

"No."

"You haven't even looked at the back."

"Then what is the rationale behind your question?"

"Because you constructed your denial with far too much haste."

Arga pulled out a chair, though he remained standing beside it. "What date is written there?"

"October 12."

He finally closed the distance and sat down, clasping his hands together on the table, fingers interlocked tightly.

"Your father called mine on the telephone that night," he said.

Lestari held her breath.

"What was the substance of that conversation?"

"I have no confirmation of that."

"Your statements shift constantly."

"Because the information I possess consists solely of fragmented data."

"Lay out every single fragment."

Arga looked up, meeting her eyes directly. "I was twelve years old that night. My father left the house after receiving that call. He returned near midnight with soaked clothes and overflowing anger."

"Directed at whom?"

"I couldn't draw a conclusion."

"Arga."

"I heard your name spoken."

The patter of raindrops lashed against the bedroom window. Lestari stood frozen.

"My name?"

"No. Your mother's name."

Something inside Lestari collapsed in absolute silence.

"Did Ratih go to the Wiratama residence that night?"

"I didn't witness her arrival visually. But my father shouted that your mother had no business meddling in the matter."

"What matter?"

"I don't know."

"Your pattern of answers is remarkably consistent."

"I am attempting to reconstruct past memories."

"No. You are selecting which information is safe to explore."

Arga lowered his gaze. "Perhaps your deduction is correct."

The flat confession bred a deeper dread than any outright denial could have.

Lestari pulled the letter from her jacket pocket. She didn't hand it over, merely exposing the corner of the paper.

"Who was the person that visited this house on the night of October 12?"

Arga focused his gaze on the corner of the paper.

"You found that document."

"Which means you understand the situation."

"I know your mother was awaiting someone's arrival."

"Who was that person?"

"Pak Hadi."

The name summoned a dim memory. Hadi had been the Wiratama family driver during Lestari’s childhood—the man who once handed her a ginger sweet at her father’s funeral before disappearing without a trace months after the incident.

"Is he still alive?"

"Once."

The single word was uttered softly, yet carried a razor-sharp implication.

"Once?"

"Pak Hadi passed away six years ago."

Lestari let out a hollow laugh. "How systematic. Every entity holding an explanation is gone."

"Not all of them."

"Who remains?"

Arga chose to stay mute. From the yard came the metallic rattle of the front gate being nudged.

Both of them turned simultaneously.

A shadow flickered briefly past the front window curtains.

Lestari immediately clicked off the light.

"Don't move," Arga whispered.

"I know."

"For once, follow my instructions."

He pulled his phone from his pocket, gesturing for Lestari to stay behind him. They moved stealthily toward the window frame without turning on the lights. Outside, the yard lay vacant. Only the driving rain and the swaying mango leaves swept through the air.

Yet, Lestari's eyes caught an anomaly.

Near the gate post lay a pair of muddy boots.

They weren't Arga's; his shoes remained dry on the porch.

Arga unlatched the back door and stepped out, Lestari tailing him before he could object.

They tracked footpaths leading to the side of the building, stopping right beneath Ratih’s bedroom window. The soil there showed fresh boot prints. On the wooden window frame, someone had carved a shallow mark of two crossed lines.

Lestari reached out to touch it.

"This mark has been here for a long time," she murmured.

Arga grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

"Do not make physical contact with that marker."

"What is the rationale?"

"Because it is a visual code used by my father's operatives to tag structures that have undergone inspection."

Lestari studied the mark intensely. "This property has been inspected?"

"More than once."

"And you are only sharing this now?"

"I only identified it just now."

"Through what indicator?"

Arga pointed to the base of the wooden frame. A fresh layer of paint was peeling. Tucked within the c***k was a small, dark metal object.

A key.

Lestari extracted it using a handkerchief. The key was dense, heavy, and bore an engraved number 3 on its head.

Her mother's written words echoed in her mind.

The key to the old archive room.

"Where is that archive room located?" Lestari asked.

"At the old factory facility."

"We are going there tomorrow."

"No."

"If you're worried about the risk, you don't have to get involved."

"My concern is not about personal safety."

"Then what?"

Arga stared at the structure swallowed by darkness. "Someone deliberately orchestrated for you to find this key. And they made sure I watched you do it."

Lestari gripped the handkerchief-wrapped key tightly.

"What is the motive behind this?"

"It's very possible this key isn't meant to point us anywhere."

"Then?"

"A trap."

On the main road, a vehicle moved at low velocity without headlights. The car paused briefly in front of the house before accelerating away into the curve of the road.

Arga kept his eyes fixed on where the vehicle had disappeared.

Lestari tucked the key safely into her pocket.

"We are sticking to the plan. The factory, tomorrow."

"Lestari—"

"If they intend to use me as bait, the least I can do is choose where the hook is cast."

For the first time, Arga looked at her not as a little girl in need of protection.

He looked at Lestari as an individual who had chosen to step directly into the crossfire.

From the direction of her mother’s room came the dull thud of an object hitting the floor.

Both spun around instantly.

On the floorboards near the wardrobe, a white envelope lay right beneath the door gap.

Yet they had thoroughly searched that room moments before.

Scrawled across the front of the envelope was a single line:

For the one who still holds an ounce of trust in Arga.

Lestari shifted her gaze to the man beside her.

Arga’s face had gone entirely pale.

"I never wrote those words," he said flatly.

"I know."

"How can you jump to that conclusion?"

Lestari picked up the envelope without breaking the seal.

"Because whoever wrote this possesses information you haven't even had the chance to articulate yet."

Outside, the downpour gradually subsided.

Yet from the direction of the riverbank, a long, piercing whistle echoed through the night—a sound Lestari remembered hearing only on the night her father died.