Chapter 2 - The Voice in the Dark
After dropping Harper off at her elementary school—making sure to personally hand her over to her teacher, Mrs. Gable, with a strict instruction that only I was allowed to pick her up that afternoon—I drove straight to the hospital.
I wasn't scheduled for a shift until the evening, but I needed a quiet, secure place to listen to what was on that recorder. I bypassed the main emergency entrance and took the service elevator up to the old research library on the fourth floor, a dusty, rarely used archive room where I knew I wouldn't be disturbed.
I sat at a corner table, plugged my headphones into my laptop, and inserted the USB drive.
The drive contained dozens of audio files, neatly cataloged by date. The dates stretched back three years, ending just six months before Clara and I met. I clicked on the oldest file, dated October 14th, 2023.
The sound of static filled my ears, followed by the distant murmur of a television. Then, a man’s voice spoke. It was weak, slurred, and breathless.
"Clara... please. I can't... I can't feel my legs. What did you put in the tea?"
My heart stopped. I recognized that voice from the few photos Clara kept in her desk. It was Thomas, her late husband.
Clara’s voice replied, her tone terrifyingly calm, devoid of the sweet, melodic cadence she used when greeting me at the front door.
"Just something to help you relax, Thomas. You’ve been so stressed lately. Always worrying about the finances, always threatening to take Harper away from me. I told you, Thomas. Nobody takes what’s mine."
"Clara... I’m calling... 911..."
"You can't reach the phone, darling. I moved it. And the doors are locked. Just close your eyes. It’ll all be over soon."
The recording cut to static. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely control the mouse trackpad. I opened the next file. It was a local news broadcast audio rip from the following morning.
“...A tragic house fire in the quiet neighborhood of Cherry Hills has claimed the life of local architect Thomas Monroe. Investigators believe the blaze was started by a faulty space heater in the basement. His wife, Clara, and their four-year-old daughter, Harper, were safely evacuated...”
I took off my headphones, my chest heaving. It wasn't an accident. Clara had poisoned her husband, paralyzed him, and then set their own home on fire to cover up the murder and collect the insurance money. And Harper, who had been only four at the time, had witnessed or understood enough of it to be kept in a perpetual state of terror ever since.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the wooden table.
It was a text from Clara.
May you like
“Hi honey! Just finished my morning meetings. I’m going to pick up Harper from school early today so we can go get ice cream. See you tonight! Love you!”
Panic surged through my veins. I grabbed my laptop, shoved the USB drive into my pocket, and ran for the stairs.
