Chapter 3 - THE ROOM THAT WASN'T THERE
Victor stared at the silver watch, the phantom ticking echoing in his memory. Ethan had been wearing it the night he died. The police had claimed it was lost in the wreckage.
He snatched the keycard from the floor.
“Mr. Kane!” Richard Cole stammered, backing away from the body. “I—I just found him like this! I swear!”
Victor ignored him. He turned to Emma, holding out the keycard. “Do you know where this is?”
Emma stared at the plastic card. A flash of recognition crossed her eyes. She didn't sign. Instead, she reached into her raincoat pocket and pulled out a small, folded architectural blueprint. It was old, yellowed at the edges, marked with red ink.
Victor’s heart pounded. He recognized the handwriting in the margins immediately. Ethan’s.
Emma pointed to a section of the fourth floor. The east wing. It was labeled as a maintenance closet on modern maps, but in red ink, Ethan had drawn a square. 402.
“Daniel,” Victor barked, spinning around. Daniel was standing in the doorway, surrounded by two of Victor’s most trusted men, their hands resting on their weapons. “You said Marcus is in the cold room. The industrial freezer in the basement.”
“Yes,” Daniel said, his voice tight. “I locked him in there to keep him safe until I could bring him to you. I swear to God, Victor.”
“Then why did he just call me terrified?” Victor challenged.
Daniel’s face fell. “Because someone else found him.”
Victor had to make a choice. The man who had raised this little girl was dying in the basement, but the answers to his brother’s murder—and the mastermind trying to kill them all tonight—were on the fourth floor.
Emma made the decision for him. She grabbed the blueprint, pointed at the red square, and then pointed at herself. She would show him.
“We go to 402,” Victor ordered. “Lock down the basement. Nobody gets in or out.”
The journey to the fourth floor was a tense, silent crawl through the service stairwell. Emma stayed right beside Victor, her small hand gripping the fabric of his suit jacket. She wasn't just a child seeking protection; she was a guide.
When they reached the east wing corridor, it was eerily quiet. The plush carpet swallowed their footsteps. They stopped in front of a heavy oak door marked MAINTENANCE.
Victor slid the keycard. A green light flashed.
He pushed the door open, his weapon drawn.
It wasn't a closet. It was a fully furnished luxury suite. Dust sheets covered the furniture, but the air smelled faintly of cedar and old paper.
Victor stepped inside. Emma followed, her eyes scanning the room. She walked directly to the mahogany desk in the corner. She pulled open the bottom drawer. It was empty.
But Emma didn't stop. She reached her small hand under the desk, feeling along the wood paneling, and pressed a hidden latch. A false bottom popped open.
Inside sat a thick, black leather ledger.
Victor pulled it out. He opened the first page. It was filled with Marcus Carter’s meticulous handwriting. Forensic accounting. Millions of dollars diverted from the Blackwood Foundation charity into offshore shell companies.
And buying weapons.
Victor flipped the page. There were names. Politicians. Judges. And at the very top, the largest beneficiary of the stolen money.
Senator Thomas Vance.
Victor stopped breathing. Thomas Vance was the guest of honor tonight. He was Victor’s mentor. The man who had taken Victor and Ethan in when their parents died.
A floorboard creaked behind them.
Victor spun around, raising his weapon.
May you like
Richard Cole stood in the doorway, a suppressed pistol aimed directly at Emma’s head.
“Put it down, Victor,” Richard said, his nervous demeanor entirely gone, replaced by dead, cold calculation. “Or the little mute girl paints the desk.”
