Chapter 4 - THE VOICE IN THE DARK
Ethan’s laptop sat open on the scratched Formica kitchen table, the screen casting a pale blue glow across Amanda’s pale face.
The apartment was dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Grace sleeping on the couch in the next room.
Ethan inserted the micro-SD card into an adapter and slid it into the port. A file folder popped up on the screen. It contained exactly one audio file, labeled with a string of numbers.
Amanda reached out and gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white.
"Are you ready?" Ethan asked gently.
She gave a single, terrified nod.
Ethan clicked play.
For the first ten seconds, there was only the sound of heavy, echoing footsteps and the metallic clanking of a construction site. Then, Mark Williams’ voice came through, slightly breathless.
“This is Mark Williams, Local 49 inspector. I’m on the catwalk of sector four. The main load-bearing trusses are buckling. The steel is cheap imports, not the domestic grade listed on the manifests. Kensington is committing mass fraud. I’m tagging this site as condemned.”
Suddenly, a loud metallic clang echoed on the recording, like a door slamming shut.
“You’re not condemning anything, Mark.”
The second voice on the recording made the blood in Ethan’s veins turn to ice. It was a smooth, cultured, perfectly modulated voice. A voice used to commanding courtrooms and destroying opposing counsel.
Amanda gasped, covering her mouth.
“You don’t belong up here,” Mark’s voice trembled slightly. “I’m filing this report to the state.”
“You file that report, and Kensington loses a fifty-million-dollar government contract,” the cultured voice replied, echoing slightly in the massive warehouse. “My law firm cannot allow that to happen. We have invested far too much in this development.”
“I don’t care about your money!” Mark shouted. “This roof is going to cave in! It’s going to kill people!”
“Then we better make sure no one is under it. Except you, of course.”
There was the sound of a scuffle, a grunt of pain from Mark, and then the sickening, deafening sound of groaning metal. A massive crack ripped through the audio, followed by a roar of collapsing steel and concrete.
The audio abruptly cut out to static.
The silence in the kitchen was heavier than the collapsed roof.
Amanda let out a ragged, shattered sob. She pressed her face into her hands, weeping for the man who had died terrified and alone in the dark.
Ethan sat perfectly still. He felt like he was floating above his own body. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't blink.
"That was Arthur Sterling," Amanda choked out, wiping her face. "That was the man you work for. He ordered them to drop the roof on my husband."
Ethan slowly closed the laptop. His hands were shaking so violently he had to press them flat against the table.
"No," Ethan whispered.
Amanda looked up, her grief instantly hardening into defensive anger. "Don't you dare try to protect him! I heard his voice!"
"It wasn't Arthur Sterling, Amanda," Ethan said, his voice completely hollow. He looked at her, his eyes filled with a devastating, world-shattering horror.
"I know that voice. I grew up listening to that voice read me bedtime stories."
Amanda froze, her eyes widening in realization.
"That wasn't Arthur," Ethan repeated, a tear finally slipping down his cheek. "That was my father."
The kitchen seemed to spin. Ethan’s father, Robert Carter. The man whose portrait hung in the grand lobby of the firm. The man who had taught Ethan about justice, integrity, and the law.
He hadn't died of a sudden heart attack a decade ago, as Ethan had always been told. He had been alive eight months ago. Alive, and murdering a man in cold blood.
Before Amanda could speak, a sharp, ragged cough came from the living room.
It wasn't a normal cough. It was a wet, desperately tight sound.
Amanda bolted up, knocking her chair backward. She ran into the living room. Ethan followed instantly.
Grace was sitting up on the couch, her face pale, her lips tinged slightly blue. She was clutching her chest, fighting for a breath that wouldn't come.
"Her asthma," Amanda panicked, dropping to her knees and grabbing a small plastic inhaler from the coffee table. She shook it frantically and pressed it to Grace's mouth. "Breathe, baby. Breathe."
Grace took a hit, but the canister sputtered. It was empty.
"No, no, no," Amanda cried, shaking it again. "I'm supposed to get the refill on Tuesday. I don't have the money yet."
"I have a car," Ethan said, his corporate paralysis vanishing, replaced by pure, adrenaline-fueled action. He scooped Grace up into his arms. She felt terrifyingly light. "We’re going to the emergency room. Now."
"I don't have insurance!" Amanda sobbed, following him out the door. "Kensington retroactively canceled Mark's benefits!"
"I don't care what it costs," Ethan said, sprinting down the stairs. "I’m paying for it."
Ten minutes later, they burst through the doors of the local ER. Ethan bypassed the waiting room entirely, carrying Grace straight to the triage desk. He threw his platinum credit card onto the counter.
"She needs a nebulizer treatment immediately. Put everything on my card."
Within minutes, Grace was hooked up to a breathing machine, the color slowly returning to her cheeks as the medicine opened her airways. Amanda sat on the edge of the hospital bed, holding her daughter's small hand, weeping silently.
Ethan stood in the doorway, watching them. His father had caused this. His wealth, his pristine apartment, his German car—it was all bought with the blood of Mark Williams.
Amanda looked up at him through her tears.
"Your father," she whispered. "If your father is alive... who did we bury?"
Ethan’s jaw clenched. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out. And I’m going to tear my own firm to the ground to do it."
Just then, Ethan's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.
The caller ID flashed a name that made his stomach drop.
Arthur Sterling.
May you like
Ethan answered, pressing the phone to his ear. "Yes."
"Ethan," Arthur's voice purred on the other line, smooth and unbothered. "I told you not to go digging in graveyards. It seems you didn't listen. Child Protective Services just received an anonymous tip about an unemployed, negligent mother in Maple Street Apartments. They’re on their way to the hospital right now to take the girl."
