Chapter 4 - THE ROOM KEY
The drive across the city felt like a slow descent into madness.
The Grand Hotel was a towering relic of 1920s architecture, a massive stone monolith located on the edge of the Chicago River. It was the crown jewel of our family’s real estate portfolio. My brother, Marcus, had managed it exclusively for the last fifteen years.
Lorenzo gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were stark white. He hadn't spoken a word since we left the basement of the restaurant. The heavy brass key sat in the center console between us, mocking me with its dark, tarnished metal.
"Lorenzo," I finally spoke, my voice barely a whisper against the hum of the engine. "Marcus loves you. He practically raised you. You cannot walk in there assuming the worst."
"He checked Dad’s car into a VIP lot and kept his coat hidden in a basement for twenty-three years," Lorenzo countered, his voice devoid of any emotion. It was the voice he used when destroying rival companies in boardrooms. "He knew where Dad was. And he let you cry yourself to sleep every night."
He pulled the car aggressively into the circular driveway of The Grand Hotel.
The valet rushed forward to open the door, but Lorenzo ignored him, striding past the gilded columns and straight through the revolving glass doors. I hurried behind him, pulling my coat tight against the chill.
The lobby was spectacular, all vaulted ceilings, polished brass, and red velvet.
We didn't stop at the front desk. Lorenzo bypassed the grand staircase and walked directly to the private, staff-only service elevator. He punched in his security code. The doors slid open silently.
"The fourth floor has been closed for renovations since I was seven years old," Lorenzo said, staring at the brass panel as he pressed the button for floor four.
"Marcus said there was severe water damage from the old pipes," I offered weakly, though the lie tasted like ash in my mouth.
"There was no water damage, Mom," Lorenzo said coldly.
The elevator dinged. The doors opened.
The fourth floor was completely dark. The thick, luxurious carpet had been stripped away, leaving bare concrete. The wallpaper was peeling, and a thick layer of dust coated the air, smelling of abandonment and decay.
Lorenzo pulled out his phone, clicking on the flashlight. The bright white beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a long, eerie corridor of identical mahogany doors.
We walked in silence. The only sound was the crunch of dust beneath our shoes.
408. 410.
We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall.
412.
Lorenzo reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy brass key. He slid it into the old mechanical lock. It clicked loudly, a sharp, violent sound in the empty hallway.
He turned the handle and pushed the door open.
I stepped into the room, raising a hand to my mouth to stifle a scream.
Room 412 wasn't just abandoned. It was a tomb.
The furniture had been completely overturned. The heavy mattress was dragged half off the bed frame. A porcelain lamp lay shattered in a hundred pieces against the far wall. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the city lights.
It was the scene of a violent, desperate struggle.
"He didn't just hide here," Lorenzo whispered, stepping carefully over a broken chair. "He fought for his life."
I walked toward the center of the room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
On the small desk in the corner, covered in a thick layer of grey dust, sat a single crystal whiskey glass, a pack of matches from The Gilded Lily, and an empty leather holster.
Richard’s gun holster.
"He was waiting for someone," I breathed, touching the leather. "He was terrified."
Lorenzo moved toward the bed. He crouched down, shining his phone light underneath the heavy wooden frame.
"Mom," Lorenzo said, his voice suddenly sounding very young. "Look at this."
I hurried to his side, dropping to my knees on the dirty concrete floor, ruining my expensive dress.
I followed the beam of his flashlight.
Shoved deep beneath the bed, crumpled and stained with something dark and rusted, was a piece of white paper.
Lorenzo reached under and pulled it out carefully.
He unfolded it.
I felt the air leave my lungs in a violent rush.
It was a child’s drawing. Done in bright, messy crayons. It showed a house, a smiling woman with brown hair, a tall man in a suit, and a little boy holding a red balloon.
At the top, written in wobbly, five-year-old handwriting, it said: I LOVE DADDY.
It was Lorenzo’s drawing. The drawing I had helped him make the morning before Richard disappeared. Richard had folded it up and put it in his breast pocket, promising to bring it to his office.
Lorenzo stared at his own childhood artwork, his hands trembling.
But it wasn't the drawing that made the room spin.
It was what was written on the back.
Lorenzo slowly flipped the paper over.
There, written in a frantic, jagged scrawl with something dark and rusted—something that looked horrifyingly like dried blood—were six words.
THEY TOOK HIM TO THE DOCKS.
DON'T TRUST MARCUS.
The flashlight beam shook violently as Lorenzo’s hand trembled.
"He knew," Lorenzo gasped, looking up at me, his dark eyes wide with terror and betrayal. "Uncle Marcus didn't just know he was here. Uncle Marcus is the reason he never came home."
Before I could say a word, the heavy wooden door of Room 412 slammed shut behind us.
The lock clicked heavily into place.
We spun around, plunging the room into absolute darkness, save for the weak beam of Lorenzo's phone.
"Well," a smooth, familiar voice echoed from the hallway, muffled slightly by the thick mahogany door. "I always knew you were too smart for your own good, Lorenzo."
May you like
My blood turned to ice.
It was Marcus.
