Chapter 4 - The Music Box
The world narrowed to a pinprick.
Lily’s room had remained untouched for two years. Every toy, every book, every pastel-colored dress sat precisely where it had been left, preserved in a kind of cryogenic grief that I refused to let anyone disturb. Grace—Clara—had been cleaning that room every single day for three months under my nose, and I had never once suspected that she wasn't just a terrified employee doing her job.
"The music box," I muttered, moving toward the door with a speed that made the guards outside jump.
"Wait!" Clara called out, running a few steps after me. "If you go in there now without a plan, Victor will know. His security isn't just outside these gates—he has bugs planted in the walls of this mansion, Julian. Why do you think he always knows when you're vulnerable?"
I stopped, my hand hovering over the heavy brass doorknob of the dining hall. I slowly turned my head. "Bugs?"
"Since the day after Lily vanished," Clara said, nodding frantically. "He convinced you to let his IT firm handle the mansion's smart-home upgrades 'for security purposes.' Every microphone, every camera feed, every smart speaker in this house routes straight to a terminal in his downtown penthouse."
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. For two years, I had believed I was the apex predator, the man pulling the strings of the underworld. In reality, I had been living inside a glass cage constructed by my oldest friend, whispering my darkest griefs into a device that broadcasted every tear to the man who stole my child.
"Don't speak," I whispered, stepping close to Clara. I leaned down until my lips were near her ear. "Nod if you understand. We play his game. We act like nothing has changed."
Clara swallowed hard and gave a single, jerky nod.
"Good girl," I murmured. I raised my voice, pitching it loud enough to carry clearly toward the decorative bronze air vent near the ceiling. "Clara, clean up this mess. If you ever let your child wander into my dining room again, pack your bags and get out."
Clara immediately caught the cue, her acting kicking in with terrified perfection. "Yes, Mr. Hale! I'm sorry, sir! It won't happen again!"
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She grabbed Amara, who looked up with wide, uncomprehending eyes, and hurried out toward the kitchens.
I walked back to my seat, picked up my fork, and forced myself to take a bite of food that tasted like dust. Above me, the little metal grille of the air vent blinked with a microscopic, rhythmic red light—a digital eye watching my every move.
