Chapter 4 - The Confession of a GhostThe speaker above us crackled to life again, Vance’s voice dripping with theatrical amusement.
“Did you really think a mechanical cable would save you, Adrien? You always were a pragmatist. A stubborn, unimaginative brute who thought muscle and money could buy absolution.”
“Vance!” I shouted toward the ceiling vent, stepping forward. “If you have a grievance with me, settle it face-to-face! Leave the women and the children out of this!”
“Leave them out?” Vance’s laugh turned cold, sharp, and razor-thin. “You left me to rot in a federal black site for seven years, Adrien! Seven years in a concrete box while you played domestic lord in your seaside castle with your stolen fortune! You stole my life, my patents, my future. So I thought it only fitting... that I take yours.”
Dr. Gable shrank against the wall, clutching his head. “Alistair Vance? My God... you were supposed to be dead. The prison reported you died in the riots!”
“Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, Doctor,” Vance replied smoothly. “Much like Mr. Moretti’s reputation for being untouchable.”
Marco was already working on the wall beside the sealed steel doorway, pulling wires from a shattered junction box, trying to hotwire the door’s magnetic release. “Boss, the door is reinforced with electromagnetic plating. Conventional explosives won’t even dent it from this side. We need an external trigger.”
“There is no external help coming, Marco,” I said quietly, looking around the room.
My eyes landed on Sophie.
The four-year-old wasn't crying. She was standing entirely still by the oak armchair, staring intently at the ugly button-eyed doll in her hands.
“Sophie?” I knelt down beside her, ignoring the ticking clock of our impending doom. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
The little girl slowly raised her head. Her large, dark eyes held a strange, unsettling clarity that didn't belong to a child her age.
“Mr. Moretti,” Sophie whispered, her voice carrying an eerie resonance that didn't sound like a four-year-old at all. “The man in the wall... he’s not in the basement.”
My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
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Sophie raised her tiny hand and pointed directly at the nursery's antique rocking chair—the one that had belonged to my own mother.
“He’s sitting right under us. In the old cistern.”
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