Chapter 4 - THE SUBTERRANEAN VOICES
That evening, a heavy alpine storm rolled over Geneva, burying the estate in a thick sheet of ice and dark clouds.
At 1:00 AM, the mansion was silent.
Ethan sat in his grand study on the second floor, surrounded by heavy mahogany bookshelves and filing cabinets. On his desk lay two thick folders: one contained the original 500-page police report on Eleanor’s fatal car accident; the other contained the financial audits of Carter International from the past three years.
He had been reviewing the numbers for hours.
Just as Maya had hinted, millions of dollars had been quietly moved out of the company’s offshore accounts in the six months leading up to Eleanor’s death. The transactions bore the forged digital signatures of Eleanor Carter, who had served as the chief auditor of the family foundation before she died.
Suddenly, a soft knock echoed at his door.
Ethan pulled a drawer shut, covering the files. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Maya stepped inside. She was wearing warm flannel pajamas, her hair brushed neatly, carrying a small leather-bound book in her hands.
“You aren't sleeping,” Ethan said gently, waving her toward the leather armchair across from his desk.
“The house is loud tonight,” Maya said, sitting down.
Ethan frowned. “Loud? The house is completely quiet, Maya.”
“Not the walls,” Maya replied, tapping her temple. “The voices under the floor.”
Ethan stood up, a sudden instinct taking over. “Show me.”
Without a word, Maya walked out of the study and led Ethan down the carpeted grand staircase, past the silent portraits of his ancestors, down into the service wing of the mansion. They passed the commercial kitchens, the wine cellar, and stopped at the heavy iron door leading to the old boiler rooms beneath the west wing—a section of the house built in the late 19th century that was rarely used.
The iron door was unlocked, resting open by a fraction of an inch.
Ethan motioned for Maya to stay behind him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, heavy tactical flashlight he kept for emergencies, and pushed the door open silently.
Descending the narrow stone steps, the air grew cold, damp, and smelled of rust and old paper.
At the end of the long stone corridor, a faint yellow light flickered from behind an old wooden storage room. Voices echoed softly off the damp stone walls.
Ethan crept closer, pressing his back against the cold stone wall, peeked around the frame.
Inside the small room, surrounded by dusty wine racks and discarded furniture, stood Julian and a man in a dark tactical coat—a man Ethan instantly recognized. It was Stefan Vance, the chief of private security for the estate, a man Ethan paid half a million dollars a year to keep his family safe.
Julian was pacing frantically, holding a glass of whiskey.
“We have a disaster on our hands, Stefan!” Julian hissed, his voice echoing in the small space. “The twins are walking! Do you understand what that means? If they fully recover their memories of that night, if Grace remembers what she saw in the garage before they drove off—”
“Calm down, Julian,” Stefan said, his voice cold, calm, and methodical. “The girl is an orphan. A nobody. Whatever she knows, she got from old Mrs. Harper before the old woman died in the asylum.”
“She knew about Eleanor’s diamond!” Julian yelled in a harsh whisper. “She knew about the fire! Ethan isn't stupid! He’s already reopening the financial audits! If he links the brake failure on Eleanor’s SUV to the mechanical shop you hired, we’re both going to spend the rest of our lives in a Swiss federal prison!”
Stefan stepped closer to Julian, his face hardening. “Then we finish what we started two years ago. We handle the orphan first. A child falling down the grand staircase in the middle of the night... tragic, but believable.”
Ethan’s blood turned to liquid ice in his veins.
His own brother. His own chief of security. They hadn't just caused an accident—they had deliberately cut the brakes on Eleanor’s car to stop her from exposing their multi-million dollar embezzlement scheme. And when the accident failed to kill his daughters, they had let them suffer in wheelchairs, waiting for Ethan to break down and hand over control of the empire.
Ethan felt an overwhelming, violent urge to kick the door open and strangle both men with his bare hands.
Suddenly, a tiny, warm hand wrapped around his fingers.
Maya was standing beside him in the darkness. She raised her index finger to her lips, signaling for him to remain quiet.
She pointed to the wall behind Julian.
There, mounted on the brickwork, was the main electrical junction box for the entire west wing.
Maya reached out her small hand toward the cold iron pipe running along the wall. She didn't touch the box. She simply laid her palm against the copper pipe.
BZZZZZZZT!
A sharp, blinding flash of blue electrical arc-light erupted from the junction box with a deafening pop. Sparks showered down over Julian and Stefan! The light bulbs exploded in a shower of glass, plunging the entire subterranean basement into pitch-black darkness!
“WHAT THE HELL?!” Julian screamed in the dark.
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“GET THE FLASHLIGHT!” Stefan cursed, stumbling over a wooden crate.
In the complete darkness, Ethan grabbed Maya in his arms, lifted her up, and sprinted silently back up the stone stairs, slamming and locking the heavy iron door behind them.
