Chapter 2 - THE VOICES ON THE WIRE
"Private messages unlocked, Lena," Iris’s smooth synthesizer answered. "You have one priority voice memo from attorney Marcus Vance, delivered forty-two minutes ago. Playback begins now."
Marcus’s voice filled the quiet room, crisp and breathless. "Lena, if you can hear this, do not sign whatever Daniel brings into that room. We ran the corporate registry on the buyer he lined up. It isn’t an offshore hedge fund. It’s an entity called Marigold Heritage LLC. Lena... Daniel’s wife, Claire, is the registered director. But that’s not all. I visited Dr. Halloway’s clinic this morning to demand your operative charts. The clinic is shuttered. The staff vanished yesterday afternoon. Your vision loss isn't temporary post-operative swelling, Lena. Halloway was stripped of his medical license in Massachusetts three years ago under a different name. Call me immediately through the encrypted proxy."
A chill spread through my chest, heavier than the ache behind my bandages.
Daniel hadn’t merely taken advantage of a botched surgery. He had arranged it. He had deliberately hired a disgraced butcher to ensure I would never stand on a stage again, never read an audit, and never walk out of his front gates unassisted.
"Iris," I whispered, my throat tightening until it hurt. "Dial Marcus Vance on the private line."
"Dialing," the system replied. Two rings passed before a click came through, but it wasn't Marcus.
"Attorney Vance’s terminal is currently operating in forward-only status," an automated carrier voice reported. "Your message will be recorded."
"Marcus," I said, leaning toward the speaker. "He already made me sign. But the catalog isn’t held in my personal name. It sits inside the St. Jude Foundation Trust under Mom’s maiden name. Daniel’s signature page is worthless without the hardware encryption key. It’s hidden inside Mom’s vintage rosewood metronome in the family music room downstairs. If he finds that key, he can bypass the trust. You have to get local authorities to this house."
Before Iris could confirm transmission, a rustle of fabric sounded near the bedroom window.
My heart seized. "Iris, mute audio."
The room fell into silence. I sat rigid on the mattress, listening with every nerve ending in my body.
A light, scuffling step moved across the hardwood floor near the balcony drapes. It wasn't Daniel’s heavy dress loafers, nor Claire’s sharp, impatient designer heels.
"Aunt Lena?" a small, trembling voice whispered.
It was Toby. Daniel and Claire’s seven-year-old son.
Toby rarely spoke above a whisper in that house. Daniel was relentless with him, constantly demanding perfection, scolding him for dropping toys, grooming him to be an image of inherited wealth. Whenever Daniel’s temper flared, Toby would retreat into my guest room, sitting quietly on the rug while I composed melodies on an acoustic guitar.
"Toby?" I reached my hand out into the empty air. "Sweetheart, how did you get in here? The door is double-locked."
Soft socks padded across the carpet. Small, cold fingers slipped into my open palm.
"The terrace door from Daddy’s study has a broken latch," Toby whispered, his voice hitching. "I climbed over the stone railing. Aunt Lena, why do you have rags on your face? Daddy told Grandma’s friends on the phone that you went to Europe because you were tired of singing."
My stomach lurched. "He told them what?"
"He said you retired. He told Mommy they have to pack your dresses into boxes tonight." Toby’s voice shook as he leaned against my knee. "Aunt Lena, Daddy locked my room last night too. He was mad because I wouldn't give him Grandma's music box."
My breath hitched. "Grandma’s music box? Toby, do you mean the wooden metronome with the brass winding key?"
"Yes," the boy snuffled. "The one you gave me last Christmas to help me count piano beats. Daddy took a hammer to his desk trying to find something inside it. But he didn't find it. I hid the little shiny stick under my bed because I thought it was a secret whistle."
A flash of dizzying hope surged through the dark. The hardware encryption key—a titanium drive shaped like a decorative tuning whistle—wasn't in the study. Toby had it.
"Toby, listen to me very carefully," I whispered, wrapping both arms around his trembling shoulders. "That little whistle is very important. You can't let Daddy or Mommy see it. Can you bring it to me?"
"I have it right now," he whispered. "It's in my pocket. But Aunt Lena... there's something else. When Daddy dropped the metronome, an old envelope fell out of the back. It had Mommy's handwriting on it. It had pictures of a doctor with bad hair, and a receipt for cash. Lots of cash."
Before I could answer, the heavy brass deadbolt on the hallway door rattled.
Keys clinked against the wood.
"Toby," I gasped, my pulse hammering in my ears. "Get behind the long curtain. Don't make a sound."
The boy pulled away instantly. Footsteps crossed the threshold just as the bedroom door banged open against the wall.
"Who were you talking to?" Daniel’s voice sliced through the room, harsh and suspicious.
I forced my hands to lie completely still in my lap. "I was singing, Daniel. Or did you plan on taking my vocal cords along with my eyes?"
Daniel walked closer, the heavy scent of scotch and expensive cigars rolling off his tailored suit. He stopped right beside the bed.
"Still sharp as a tack," he sneered, tossing a glossy paper folder onto my blanket. "Enjoy the sound of your own voice while you can, Lena. Because tomorrow morning, the moving van arrives. You're heading to a private residential wellness retreat upstate. No phones. No visitors. Just trees and peace."
"I have contracts, Daniel. I have a world tour booked for October."
"Canceled," he said smoothly. "Medical grounds. Your adoring public already pities you. And the wire transfer from Marigold Heritage clears at midnight. By the way... where is the master archive drive? The buyer's technicians tried to pull the raw stems from your studio server, but there's a secondary hardware handshake required."
I tilted my chin up, staring blankly toward the sound of his breathing. "You think you know everything about our mother's business, Daniel. But you always looked at the stage, while I looked at the ledger."
Daniel grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jawbone. "Don't get cute with me, little sister. I will tear this entire estate apart board by board until I find it. You have until midnight to tell me where that key is."
He let go with a violent shove and turned toward the door.
Just as his hand hit the knob, his heel crunched against something on the hardwood floor.
He stopped dead.
May you like
I heard him bend down. The rustle of stiff paper echoed in the silence.
"What is this?" Daniel muttered, his voice suddenly dropping an octave, thick with cold fury. "Why is our mother’s wedding anniversary bracelet lying on your floor, Lena? Claire has been looking for this in her jewelry vault for three weeks."
